Crescent of Steel and Darkness
by wordwolf
Summary: Everything is connected: a mysterious corpse, a missing woman, a daring museum robbery...but can the NYPD Crime Scene Unit, the FBI Missing Persons squad, and the topsecret BPRD crack the secret before the final catastrophe? Crossover w Without a Trace, e
1. Chapter 1

CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

_CSI:New York_ and characters are the property of Anthony Zuiker and CBS; _Without a Trace_ and characters are the property of Hank Steinberg and CBS; _Hellboy_ and characters are the property of Mike Mignola and Dark Horse Entertainment. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.

All Qu'ran citations are from the translation of Abdullah Yusuf Ali, published by Tahrike Tarsile Qu'ran, Inc., Elmhurst, Queens, 2003.

"Oh No" copyright 1962 by Robert Creeley. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter 1

Thursday morning, 4:30 AM. A late spring dawn was still two hours away, but that never matters in the City that Never Sleeps; the Crime Scene Unit was already on its way. A man and a woman paused for a moment at the foot of the broadest, most impressive steps in the city, looking up toward the immense triple entrance and the three driveway-sized banners. Detective Stella Bonasera shifted her grip on her equipment case and considered the looming building. "So explain to me why they insisted on getting the two of us on this case."

Her colleague, slender and deceptively unprepossessing, favored her with a glance and half a smile. "Nothing but the best for the city's premier cultural institution, or something like that. What odds you want to lay that they called the museum director before us?" Detective Mac Taylor smirked up at the façade of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. "Got to put this case to bed before the big donors get spooked."

"Are we feeling a little cynical this morning, Detective?" Bonasera pushed back her cloud of brown hair, and her eyes sparkled.

He swung up the steps just ahead of her. "This is New York, Stella. No matter how cynical you get, it's never enough to keep up."

"Right. How silly of me to forget."

They reached the door farthest right, opened for them by a museum security guard, and were met by another guard, two uniformed police officers, and a flustered-seeming gentleman in a hastily donned suit. This last grabbed and pumped Taylor's hand a little too hard, then Bonasera's, chattering rapidly. "Oh, so good of you to come quickly at this unconscionable hour! The Crime Scene Unit, right? Such a disaster; I can't even begin to remember when we last had a – an incident like this one. Poor Mr. de Montebello – he's the Director, you know – is utterly beside himself, but he's in Madrid now; he'd be here if he could, of course."

"Of course," Bonasera echoed him calmly. "And you are, sir?"

"Oh, how inconsiderate of me – very sorry! Clement Lindley, Curator of Arms and Armor. I'm afraid this nightmare happened on my watch, so to speak. Please, follow me."

The yellow tape was already marking the boundaries of a space off the famous Equestrian Hall that displayed the Met's finest suits of European armor. In this side gallery, away from the magnificent center, the light glowed from the display cases, gleaming against the immaculate steel surfaces of an array of Turkish and Balkan daggers, swords and guns; what light escaped the cases cast a deep shadow around the uniformed and lifeless body near one corner of the room.

Detective Don Flack was waiting for them, his familiar leather-jacketed figure beside the display nearest the body. "Here's our motive." A nod of his raven head indicated the neat round hole chased into the glass on the short side of the case; beyond the hole on the upholstered wall was a blank area bordered by two hooks that once supported a treasure. "Guard probably came in and caught him at it."

The curator let out a little wail. "Oh, the poor man!" As if suddenly remembering something, he started talking faster. "Jimmy Abbott, one of the newest on our security staff. He loved the place, loved the night shift, never complained about a thing – he used to mention how lucky he was to be here, surrounded by beautiful things, instead of in some dull office building…" The criminalists did not answer; they already had their cameras out and snapping every inch and angle of the crime scene.

Once there were enough pictures, Bonasera swooped to the violated display, leaving Taylor to the examination of the dead guard. "What was taken, Mr. Lindley?" she began even as she opened her case for fingerprint powder and luminol.

"Item 36.25.1297."

"That's not a whole lot of help," Flack observed tartly.

"Oh, do please forgive me! A sword, a magnificent Turkish scimitar with green leather-wrapped hilt and Koran verses chiseled in relief on a gold-inlaid blade, believed to have been made for Sultan Suleyman the First of the Ottoman Empire sometime in the 1520s."

"So how'd it end up here?"

"A gift to the Museum, via the bequest of the late George C. Stone in 1935."

Bonasera frowned at the powder she'd dusted over the glass. "No prints. Then again, that's not unexpected." She scrutinized the edge of the hole. "The cut was made with a diamond edge. No fragments, and he took the cut piece with him. Thoroughly professional." She turned to look toward her colleague. "He, or she, didn't make this easy for us, Mac – Mac?" Slight alarm tinged her voice when she saw his face.

The senior criminalist spoke as if only to himself, running his gloved hands across the body. "No bullet or stab wounds, no bruising or ligature marks on the neck, vertebrae feel intact, no sign of head trauma… and no blood." He looked up to meet his partner's eyes. "How did this man die?" With a single shake of his head, he returned to his examination. "Chances are that Dr. Hawkes will find a needle puncture, probably in the back. The tox screen will probably be very interesting." Taylor looked up again. "It looks as if this poor guy didn't catch our perp in the act, Detective Flack; the thief got the drop on him."

Lindley couldn't suppress a whimper; Bonasera quickly changed the subject as something caught her attention. "Mr. Lindley, was the missing sword a companion piece to any of these others?"

The curator followed her gaze to the remaining objects in the case, three more sabers and a scabbard. Two blades hung above the missing object's place, gold gleaming along gray steel, precious nephrite hilts carved so smoothly as to appear molded. But the eye swept past them rapidly, compelled to the angled bottom of the case by a sword and scabbard blazing with gemfire. The swooping blade flashed with an Arabic inscription written in inlaid diamonds and bracketed with the most delicate gold chasing; a tassel of pearls hung flirtatiously from the gem-accented jade hilt. The golden scabbard glowed green with immense polished emeralds, set among a glory of tiny diamonds.

"These pieces were grouped for common Ottoman origin and some stylistic similarities, but were certainly unconnected originally. As you can see," he could not keep the professorial temper from his voice as he indicated the sword above the empty spot, "this blade bears brief Koranic quotes set off with gold along its upper third. But the missing sword was completely covered with scriptures, all chiseled in relief out of the steel and surrounded with gold inlay. A unique piece, lavish without ostentation – unlike its more famous, later case-mate below." He shook his head at the gem-encrusted set and sighed.

"Been wanting to ask about that," Flack said almost casually. "That's quite a lot of ice on those things. Once the thief was inside the case, why not take those too?"

Lindley shrugged helplessly. "I can't imagine. If this animal wouldn't scruple to kill…" He shuddered, then quickly got a grip on himself. "All I can speculate is that this was one of those notorious commissioned thefts."

"Go on," Flack urged.

"Unscrupulous collectors are the curse of my profession, Detectives. Ever so often one will conceive an obsession for a particular piece and stop at nothing to get it. And there are those who will fulfill those obsessions for a very high price."

"Still, you'd think the perp might help himself to a bonus, given the opportunity. Honor among thieves is a fantasy." Bonasera cast another look at the jewel-encrusted scimitar left behind. "You say the stolen item was inlaid with gold?"

"Yes, but the total amount of gold involved in such pieces is rather small. It's the artistry of the inscriptions, not the troy weight, that matters."

Taylor glanced up from the victim's body. "What'd they say?"

The curator looked down as if surprised to see him. "I beg your pardon, Detective?"

"The inscriptions. What'd they say? I assume you read Arabic, Mr. Lindley."

The other smiled a little. "Sadly, I can't make that boast. My own linguistic expertise is limited to English, French, German and Italian, but of course our staff collectively can read and speak almost every written language on earth."

"That's real nice." Flack was curious, and getting annoyed with waiting for an answer to his colleague's question. "So what was written on the damn sword, already?"

"Oh – oh, of course. I can't give you a word-for-word translation off the cuff, but I understand that they were verses from the Koran dealing with _jihad_ victory – appropriate for a royal sword – and King Solomon's magical power over the _jinn_, or spirits – no doubt intended to flatter the sword's recipient, Sultan Suleyman, his name being the Arabic version of Solomon."

Taylor's eyes hardened. "_Jihad_ victory," he repeated almost tonelessly; Bonasera felt a chill. Fortunately, he then changed the subject: "I see there are security cameras in this gallery."

"In all of them, Detective," the curator replied. "Not to mention also in the hallways, the storage spaces, and at every entrance and exit."

"That's great. When can we have the tapes?"

Lindley pinked, and his fingers began dancing a nervous samba with each other. "According to our security staff," he glanced uncertainly over at the pair of museum guards across the gallery, "the cameras in here were turned off last night."

"WHAT the – !" Flack whirled to look up at the ceiling. "What about the main hall? He had to have come in from there."

The curatorial blush deepened to tomato scarlet. "We checked. Those were turned off too." Lindley looked down as if he didn't have permission to do otherwise.

"The cameras were probably deactivated all along the route our perp took in and out," Bonasera speculated.

"In advance." Taylor stood, acid in his voice. "An inside job, on the cleanest crime scene we've ever had."

Flack grunted. "And the hits just keep on coming."

Lindley's hands went to his face, now shifting from red to gray, and dragged down it. "Truer words were, sadly, never spoken. Please try to appreciate our position, Detectives! This museum – or rather, this complex – is the greatest treasure-house on the continent. It comprises eight acres of buildings covering over a million square feet; it has to have its own power plant, even its own fire department. We have a staff of over three thousand, and own a thousand objects for each one of them, fewer than ten percent of which are on display at any given time. At the best of times we teeter on the edge of chaos, and now, with this – this awful event," it was as if the polished fellow could not bring himself to say 'murder'; "following so soon on the disappearance, I've no idea what will become of us!"

One word got full police attention. "What disappearance?" Flack got it out first.

"You weren't aware? Why, we've already engaged the local FBI office on the matter. A member of the conservatorial staff in the department of European Painting and Sculpture didn't show up for work Tuesday, without calling or giving any notice. When she didn't show up again yesterday and could not be contacted, her colleagues worried and reported her missing."

All the NYPD officers on the scene exchanged looks. "Mr. Lindley, we'll need pictures of both the stolen object and the missing person," Taylor declared. "We also have to know everything you told the FBI before we contact them ourselves. If the staff here are able to get in and out of the building after hours, we just might have our perp."

Lindley went fully ashen. "Oh, no, that's not possible! Not Lexi!" Remembering himself, he explained, "Alexa Duhaine, the missing conservator, was a lovely girl. Talented, conscientious, very serious and completely dedicated to her work and this institution."

"The ones you always have to watch out for," Flack sneered.

Bonasera assured the curator gently, "Nobody has identified any suspects yet. But we have to consider the slim chance that she was somehow involved in this."

"Slim to none, and slim is quite out, Detective," the curator replied firmly. "It's inconceivable that a member of the Metropolitan Museum staff could be so heedless of professional honor as to be complicit in – in bloodshed and plunder!"

Taylor almost smiled, but there was no mirth in his eyes. "And yet, a thief and murderer was able to gain access without forced entry, and the cameras that would have solved the matter were carefully turned off ahead of time. I get a sense of less than perfect loyalty on someone's part."

With the dead man secured on a stretcher, the morgue attendants glided through the Hall of Arms and Armor, followed by the Crime Scene Unit with what meager evidence they had been able to gather. Far above, on the balcony bridge linking the two wings of the second-floor Musical Instruments collection, hovering before a grand pipe organ, a keen golden gaze followed them out, dark thoughts simmering behind the shining eyes. _Too late. The local cops are all over this now. Should've been here even before they got the feds involved, but who knew? Who knew what she would do – and with whom? And now it's gone, into the wrongest hands that could get it. Well, like they say, you knew the job was tough when you took it… _With a swirl of motion, too swift and too quiet, the balcony was suddenly empty again between the stone railing and the organ, and something moved almost noiselessly into the shadows.

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: By now most of you will have noticed that this story is set during Season 1 of CSI:NY. I liked Hawkes in the morgue more anyway…

CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

Chapter 2

The hive of activity that was the downstate New York headquarters of the FBI had reached full buzz by 10 AM. In the offices of the Missing Persons Unit, all eyes were on the whiteboard and the timeline drawn upon it – a timeline now distressingly short of detail. To worsen the matter, little had been added since the team had caught this case nearly twenty-four hours ago. No one wanted to mention the conventional wisdom on missing-persons investigations: that a trail two days cold would likely never be warm again, and the chances of finding not a living subject, but a body, rose steadily with time.

Special Agent Jack Malone reviewed what they had. "So Alexa Duhaine – usually known as Lexi – was last seen at 8:20 PM Monday night, when the last of her colleagues went home, leaving her still working. Apparently this was her usual practice when deep into a project. No one at her building saw her arrive home."

"It seems safe to assume she never got there," Vivian Johnson continued.

"Not necessarily." Danny Taylor stood up to make his point. "Remember that we couldn't find any neighbors who had any more of a relationship with her than saying hi in the elevator. Most of them who recognized her picture didn't even know her name."

There were nods and murmurs around the board. Samantha "Sam" Spade took up and continued Danny's point. "Not to mention that we haven't found any boyfriends, current or former, or old school friends still in touch, or any relatives she might be staying with. Mother recently deceased, father clear across the country in San Francisco and didn't seem too concerned about his only child dropping off the face of the earth." She sighed. "That must have been some divorce."

Malone carefully kept himself from wincing. "It seems as if, aside from the Museum staff, this girl stayed pretty much off the social grid." He glanced at the picture stuck to the whiteboard; it showed a slim woman in her early twenties, with bobbed blonde hair, a subtle smile, and green eyes that seemed older than the rest of her face. "Which is a little hard to believe."

"No kidding," said Danny emphatically. "They told me at NYU Institute of Fine Arts that she came up from Yale and finished the master's degree program in conservation in one year, and the Met hired her right out of it." He shook his head with an air of bitter humor. "Last I heard, girls with Ivy League educations, rare skills, promising careers, and who look like _that_, generally don't come to New York to disappear – in any sense of the word."

Johnson considered his observation. "What about the chances that both of Lexi's disappearances – the social kind and the literal one – were voluntary?"

"It's a thought." Malone looked again at the nearly empty timeline. "Still, we have nothing that points to it. If she wanted to drop out and vanish, she seems not to have mentioned it to anyone. But that would go with her willful isolation. People who don't want to be found are the hardest to find." The team leader turned his attention to the last member of his unit. "Martin, you've been pretty quiet. Any thoughts or hunches to share?"

But Martin Fitzgerald didn't have a chance to reply before the telephone rang. Malone took it. "Special Agent Malone… About what?... Really…Send him up." He hung up and answered the team's collective question. "We're about to receive a visit from a Detective Don Flack of the NYPD. Seems that the Metropolitan Museum was robbed last night, and a guard was murdered. The local cops are investigating the possibility of a connection to Lexi Duhaine's disappearance."

"What kind of a connection?" Sam asked almost eagerly.

Malone looked past her to the doorway, watching the entrance of a tall man in a black leather blazer. "We're about to find out, Sam."

XXXX

The high-vaulted chambers of the City morgue were, as always, too cold and too quiet. Detective Taylor strode into the autopsy room with a calm born of long familiarity. "You wanted to see me, Dr. Hawkes?"

"Actually, I wanted you to see _this_." The emphasis was subtle, but unmistakable. Forensic pathologist Dr. Sheldon Hawkes led the other to the examination table and the draped body of the murdered museum guard James Abbott. Hawkes reached for the sheet but then, to Taylor's mild surprise, seemed to think better of it and released his hold, turning to regard the criminalist. "Before we go any further, I think I should warn you: neither of us has ever seen the like of this before."

Taylor regarded the slim dark man before him with frank professional admiration. "We've seen the like of everything else; how different could this be?"

But Hawkes' even brown gaze grew shadowed. He shook his close-cropped head and replied quietly, "I really have no idea what to make of this, and I guarantee that you won't either, Mac. And to be completely honest, it scares me." With that, he turned, took the drape and drew it down.

The cold in the room seemed to deepen and seep into Taylor's flesh as he stared. As was standard in the course of the autopsy, Hawkes had cut open the victim's chest, sundering the ribs to bare his heart. That heart lay before them now – neatly bisected from top to bottom, as if cloven with a single stroke.

Taylor turned to the pathologist, who answered the question in his eyes. "No, Mac, I didn't do it. This is exactly as I found it when I cracked his chest."

The criminalist stared at Hawkes for a moment, then turned the same stare back to the violated body. "Exactly as you found it…" he breathed. There was only silence for almost too long before Taylor looked back up and said softly, "Sheldon, are you saying that this man's heart was sliced in two – from the _inside_?"

"That is exactly what I'm saying. There wasn't a mark on him anywhere, except for a couple of old scars that had obviously been there for years. Once I removed his clothes, I didn't find a thing – not so much as a needlestick. Superficially, he showed no signs of violence or ill health. Then I opened him up." Hawkes waved a hand at the body, indicating both it and his own helplessness. "There's our cause of death. What I can't even imagine is the _cause_ of our cause of death."

"Dear God." Taylor shook his head very slowly, and considered. "Is there a chance that – that this is some disease we've never seen before? That this man's death had nothing to do with the theft, but was due to an entirely coincidental natural cause?"

Hawkes could only shrug. "There's a chance of just about anything. At this point, I couldn't possibly guess the implications of this. It could mean anything from a single unique anomaly that we'll never explain, to a catastrophe of Biblical proportions." He shrugged again, and turned to pull the drape back up over the dead man's face. "I'll continue the autopsy, and let you know as soon as the bloodwork comes back."

"Thank you." Taylor paused for a moment. "Stella should see this, and Flack too."

"But no one else who isn't on this case," Hawkes replied firmly. "If this gets to the tabloids…can you imagine what those headline writers will come up with?"

Taylor smiled wryly at the thought, in spite of the situation. "Who can forget the glory days of 'Headless Body in Topless Bar'? We'll keep the lid on it, Sheldon. If I have my way, this will hit the press first when you write it up for the _New England Journal of Medicine_ and become even more of a legend in the field than you are already."

With a small, indulgent smile and a nod, the pathologist dismissed his colleague. But as Taylor returned to the crime lab, his own thoughts were far darker and more turgid than he would admit to Hawkes. There was something about that cleanly divided heart, something unnatural, far more disturbing than any of the hideous mutilations and decompositions that the CSIs were forced to consider in the line of duty. Taylor was already sure – why, he could not say – that the bisection was the result of no illness or natural phenomenon, however rare, nothing so innocent as that. He considered what Hawkes had said about the possible implications of this death, and reflected that the pathologist might likely have been, if anything, too optimistic…

Taylor let a small sigh escape him before clamping down on any more show of emotion, and adjusted his jacket absently. First he'd debrief Flack on what the detective had learned from the feds, and how they'd reacted to the NYPD's case. Then he could send both Flack and Bonasera to the morgue, but without describing anything in advance; let them see for themselves and draw their own conclusions free of his interference. It'd be good to have more than one trusted colleague to share this awful secret; together the four of them might be able to come up with something. The crime scene had yielded so little evidence of any other kind; it was clear that the bizarre death of James Abbott would break this case if anything could. And Taylor had an unquiet feeling that breaking this case would only be the beginning – of what, no one could possibly know.

XXXX

Stroking his beard thoughtfully, the older man looked around, appraising the elegant dining room. It would do, he decided: the heavy bottle-green velvet drapes had been drawn across the windows, and all the foul and distracting paintings had been taken down from the walls. Similarly, the useless, ostentatious luxuries usually displayed on the table of hand-carved Thai teakwood – the silver candlelabrum, the Belgian lace tablecloth, the painted Ukrainian bowl piled with fruit, all of them – had been taken away, leaving bare wood and room for two far more important objects. His orders had indeed been followed to the letter, and he was pleased. Now to summon the others…

The younger man and the woman came swiftly as hunting dogs to his whistle. It was gratifying to see how quickly and well they had learned. As instructed, they waited for him to sit first before sitting, and for him to speak first before speaking. With this last element of their training in mind, he let them wait in silence for a full minute before he spoke, just to reinforce his lessons. Yes, it was also gratifying to see that self-control was not completely beyond them; there might be hope for their nations yet. A quick glare at the woman was sufficient to remind her to tuck those last loose strands of hair under her cloak, and he was ready to begin.

"Something must be done."

The younger man smirked, pushing back that lank oily hair he was so unaccountably proud of. "Right. Something must be done. So why don't you just whistle up those mysterious little friends of yours you've been talking about so much, and have them do it?"

The other folded his arms and glared. Putting up with this disrespectful ass was the hardest part of the operation by far. His sneering attitude, his annoying accent, his boasting atheism, and that hair – everything about him rankled. Pity that it was his house. Nothing could be done about that…yet. "I intend to, but not before careful plans are made. Only fools move before they know where they are going."

"That doesn't seem to have stopped the cops or the feds."

He turned sharply to the woman who had spoken, and glared harder. "Who addressed you?"

She dropped her gaze, but not before he caught the flash of resentment. Across the table, the younger man grinned at her and needled, "Ooh, better be careful, love!"

It was almost unbearable being stuck between these two. The older man ground his teeth, but carefully controlled his temper; the Prophet, peace be upon him, had endured far worse. He'd have to explain their position in terms a child could follow. "I have consulted the mirror and observed at length. The local police and the FBI started sharing their information sooner than expected. Both are now aware that the _dhu'l-fakar_ has been taken, that the cameras were turned off, and that – "

"Don't worry about it," the younger man interrupted. The others turned to stare at him, she astonished, he incredulous and indignant at the impertinence. "Hear me out!" the other urged, raising placating hands. "So they know the same few useless details, but they've no way to put them together. And there's a way to guarantee that they won't put them together."

The elder stroked his beard, indignation ebbing. "Go on."

"Let's give them a distraction. Something bigger." He grinned. "Something personal."

The woman shrank down, withdrawing into her draperies, as the other man leaned forward, growing excited. "Explain!"

"It's time to pinch something else, to go with these." With a toss of his hair he indicated the two items lying alone on the table: the book bound in ebony and red leather, the gold- and black-inscribed scimitar. "They don't even know about the book. If we give them something else to think about, they'll forget all about the bloody sword too…"

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Chapter 3

CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

Chapter 3

Detective Flack returned from FBI headquarters with disappointingly little to report. For what it was worth, both agencies now knew about Lexi Duhaine's academic success, excellent career prospects, professional dedication, and nonexistent social life – and about the FBI's complete lack of leads. "And that's all she wrote," Flack concluded, showing symbolically empty hands. "You'd think that with all their resources, the feds could've come up with _something_."

There was the perfect opening for Taylor. "Dr. Hawkes has come up with something. Problem is, he doesn't know what it is." With that, he dispatched Flack and Bonasera to the morgue.

They returned stunned and pale, reminding him of his own reaction. "So what do you think?"

Bonasera shook her head. "I think we should let the feds have a look."

Taylor nodded once, then turned to Flack. The detective considered before saying, "Well, we don't know if there's any connection between their case and ours."

"Except for one huge connection," Bonasera reminded him. "And it takes up a big block on the East Side by the park."

"Stella's got a point." Taylor looked from one to the other. "Especially considering that all the security cameras in a direct route between the west basement entrance and the weapons gallery were turned off at 8:30 Monday night."

"By someone who obviously knew that the cameras aren't checked or maintained regularly." Bonasera was emphatic. "It could have been any staff member at work that night, but a certain sudden and complete disappearance doesn't look good."

And Flack conceded. "Okay. We'll share it with the feds."

Taylor was satisfied. "I'll inform Dr. Hawkes and arrange the viewing. Don, tell me who you met with at the FBI."

XXXX

"Detective Taylor? I'm Special Agent Jack Malone, and this is Agent Vivian Johnson." Hands met all around. "We're very interested in this mysterious body you have."

"Right this way. Dr. Hawkes is waiting for us." The two FBI agents, sadly familiar with the New York City morgue, didn't look around but followed straight to the autopsy room, to be introduced to the medical examiner and take places beside the exam table. Hawkes ran his gaze across three faces, then drew back the drape.

Once past the initial astonishment, Malone had a double handful of questions, few of which had any answers. Detective Taylor was forthright about the dearth of other evidence, and Hawkes made it clear that their guess was as good as his.

An opportune ringtone broke the uncomfortable impasse. "Jack Malone. Yeah, Martin, what'd he say?... _Really?_ Did he identify himself?... Interesting. I want you to go there, with Danny. And wait a second; I've got someone here who'll want to hear this." He turned to an expectant Detective Taylor. "One of my team has gotten a call from someone who didn't leave his name, is claiming to be Lexi Duhaine's boyfriend, says he doesn't know what's all this about her going missing, and he's supposed to be meeting her today for a lunch date. And apparently, we're invited. He wants to show us nothing's going on."

"And wouldn't give his name. Do you like the feel of this?"

"No."

"Neither do I. Can Detective Flack come too?"

Malone returned to his call. "You heard that, Martin? The NYPD wants into the mix. Good; Detective Flack will come back with Viv and me, and you can fill him in. Thanks." He put the phone away. "Can this case get any weirder?"

Taylor smiled wryly. "I'd like to say no, but – give it time."

XXXX

The bar on St. Mark's Place was obviously trying to give the impression of a scruffy workingman's dive that had been there for decades, but was unmistakably a new arrival catering to the young and idle with more money than self-control. Don Flack gave a snort as he sized up the small crowd smoking and milling about the sidewalk at the entrance. "I hope no one thinks we're here off duty."

"Oh, that might not be so bad, Detective," Agent Danny Taylor replied airily. "Some of those young ladies at the door seem to be checking us out."

"Some of those young guys too," Flack grunted back. "Let's get this over with ASAP. So who's this we're supposed to meet? You said he wouldn't give his name."

"Not exactly," answered Martin Fitzgerald, who'd taken the call in question. "It was more like he forgot to mention it than that he wouldn't. Just said, 'Meet me at the bar, I'll be in a brown bomber jacket and chains,' and hung up."

Flack gave another snort. "Can you use the word 'ditz' for a man?" All three chuckled as they maneuvered through the sidewalk layabouts and went in.

Inside it was warm and dark, and in a different age would have been smoky. Martin looked around with a touch of disapproval. "Would you meet a lady for lunch here?"

"Liquid lunch, maybe," his teammate said. "I wonder who all these people are who can hang out drinking at noon on a weekday. See any chains?"

"Only the little thin kind, attached to nose piercings." Martin shook his head slightly. "I don't know, but this doesn't strike me as the kind of place Lexi Duhaine would hang out. Those aren't exactly Old Master drawings on the walls."

"Hey, just because you work with the classics doesn't mean you don't also appreciate crude softcore porn." Flack rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I really miss Mayor Giuliani. Let's get started." He led the way over to the bar. The bartender approached, but Flack waved him off. By silent, tacit agreement, no badges were shown yet.

It wasn't two minutes later when the reedy, slightly high British accent shrilled behind them. "You guys the feds? You look like the feds."

Martin winced at being given away so casually, and Danny spun around to meet the speaker's eyes, but Flack was the first to answer. "They're the feds. I'm the cops. Can we help you?"

"Great!" A wide grin revealed small, somewhat discolored teeth between a sharp chin and narrow nose. He had lank long hair of an indeterminate shade of dark, and was wearing the promised chain-trimmed, brown leather bomber jacket over a thin frame, with a little bit of belly just beginning to show itself. The overall effect was foxy but not unpleasant, and somehow familiar.

Danny was closest to him, and did the introductions. "I'm Special Agent Taylor, this is Special Agent Fitzgerald, and that's Detective Flack."

They waited, but he didn't respond in kind. The grin just went wider, and he said expectantly, "Well? You do, don't you?"

"Do what?" Danny was less suspicious than bewildered.

The reedy voice went reedier with petulance. "Recognize me! Come on! Don't you remember?" He hummed a brief snatch of melody, then switched to another one.

Flack caught on first; even so, he didn't seem too impressed. "So you're the guy from Black Tide?"

The guy from Black Tide came close to bouncing up and down. "All right! Beautiful! Yes, it's me, Derek Shaftoe, in the flesh. You remember how we burned up the charts in '91 and '92 with _Name Your Poison_ and _The White Black Tide Album_ – "

"That's cool." Flack cut him off. "Now can you really help us find Lexi Duhaine, or did you bring us here so we'd ask for autographs?"

"Oh. Yeah, right. Lexi." Shaftoe landed abruptly. "Right," he repeated. "She's supposed to meet me here at about – " he checked a large gold wristwatch – "at about right now!" He jerked his head up, glancing about like a startled cat. "See her anywhere?"

Martin rolled his eyes and exchanged a glance with Danny, who sighed; Flack seemed to be trying not to laugh. So this was going to be an utter waste of time after all. The three of them followed the former rock singer's gaze, looking for anyone among the tattooed, bleached, pierced women in the bar who could pass for Alexa Duhaine, not expecting results. The rumble of talk in the crowded place could give anyone a headache, even without the low but distinct and oddly unpleasant voices Martin could hear very close by. Someone whose throat was dust-dry couldn't seem to stop giggling scratchily right behind him, and someone else was wetly smacking his lips in response. He was tempted to turn and see just who they were, not to mention demand that they stop, whoever they were. The sounds were harsh, penetrating, scraping across his skull and giving him the headache of the century.

What the hell kind of weirdos hung out in the East Village these days? Martin turned, thoroughly annoyed, ignoring the involuntary shudder that crawled up his back, looking around for faces to attach to the creepy noises…it was hot in the bar, kind of enervating…no way Lexi Duhaine was here; they should haul this washed-up metalhead back to the office with them and show him what the FBI thought of attention-seekers interfering with a federal investigation…the air was sultry, close, almost unbreathable now, and why the hell did he feel so tired…who were those giggling and gurgling idiots and why wouldn't they just shut up…no, this was _wrong_, just all wrong, and it meant trouble…Instinctively, uselessly, Martin reached limply for his gun, but the world went dark long before he could reach it.

"This is stupid," Danny observed as he gave the crowd the thrice-over. "She's not here, and we shouldn't be either."

"I think you're right." Flack scowled, turning back to their odd informer. "So Mr. Shaftoe, you mind telling us – what the – where did he go?" He glanced all around, much faster this time.

Danny caught the note of confusion and felt it infecting him too. "I didn't see him leave. Did you, Martin – _Martin!_ Where the hell's Martin?"

Others were turning to stare at the two men as they shot panicked looks in every direction. With no sign of either Martin or the informer, they hurriedly forced their way back to the entrance, only to see no sign of either on the street. Pushing back in, they returned to the bar, this time addressing the bartender. "This place have a back door?" Flack demanded.

"In the kitchen, staff only," the bewildered man replied.

"Good. No one's to use it for a while, or the front one either." Now the badges came out.

Danny made his voice heard above the steady din, which now rapidly faded. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention…the police and the FBI are conducting an investigation; if we can have your cooperation, this will go very quickly and you can all go about your business…"

XXXX

Once the team had arrived to Danny's hurried summons, the brief interviews went very quickly. At least a dozen people had registered Derek Shaftoe's presence, but not one could clearly testify to having seen him leave. Most of the same group and a few others had also noticed the far less flamboyant Agent Fitzgerald, but no one had watched him leave either. And predictably, no one in the place had seen Lexi Duhaine.

Jack Malone was not pleased as he asked for the fourth time, "Danny, you just turned around and Martin wasn't there anymore?"

Agent Danny Taylor spread his hands helplessly. "I didn't see him go, which he had no reason to in the first place, and he didn't say anything. Detective Flack and I had just agreed that there was no sign of Lexi Duhaine, and when we turned back to say so to Shaftoe, there was no sign of him either…and when I looked for Martin, he was gone too." A last shake of his head, then Danny dropped his gaze in surrender.

"There's got to be some reasonable explanation," Flack declared. "Just don't ask me to come up with it. We didn't see or hear any disturbance, no one running out, nothing like that. Just that when we turned to them, they weren't there." The detective looked over at Agent Sam Spade. "Ever have a missing person missing this fast?"

Sam's cheeks were two bright flushes in a very pale setting. "No."

Flack shrugged, trying to disguise his concern and failing. "Spontaneous combustion leaves a mark, so it couldn't have been that…" Sam glared hard at him, but only for a moment before she had to look away, blinking quickly.

Agent Johnson quickly intervened between them. "Let's remember we're on the same side here, and hopefully can keep on the same page. Maybe your CSIs can find something useful, Detective Flack."

"If anyone can, they will," he declared with a touch of pride.

"Good." Johnson reached out and took hold of her colleague's shoulder. "In the meantime, we know Martin can take care of himself – and he knows that we're looking for him." Then her tone hardened. "And as for this Derek Shaftoe, I'm sure he knows we're looking for him too. And he's not going to be at all happy when we find him."

Inside, the staff were none too pleased about their place of business being treated as a crime scene. The bartender was grumbling, "Look, two guys walked out. Who gives a damn? You see a body or anything?"

"No, but I see this." Detective Bonasera held up her tweezers; in its tip was clamped a slim dark arc about two inches long, curved like a parenthesis, too big to be a hair and too delicate to be a wire. "Two of them on the floor here, and another on the bar. Any idea what they are?"

"The Jolly Green Giant's eyelashes? Like I care! Will you just finish picking over my place so I can get some customers back in here?"

"We're almost finished, sir," Detective Taylor promised from the floor. "It looks as if this stuff has damaged your floor in spots." Mindful of the blackened marks under the stuff in question, he collected it in a glass tube rather than a plastic bag.

"That's my problem, not yours," the civilian snapped.

"And one of those two guys who walked out, as you put it, is a federal agent. That's our problem. Which doesn't exactly make this a crime scene, but we appreciate the chance to go over it."

"Yeah, I'm such a good citizen. Are you done yet?"

Bonasera finished stowing her samples. "Yes, we're done here." She turned her attention to her partner. "You make anything of this stuff?"

"Not yet, but that's what the crime lab is for, Stella."

XXXX

"DAMN it!" The roar shook the room. "We've got to do something NOW!"

"We can't, and you know we can't. The risk of discovery is too high."

"So there's a risk of discovery! There's always a risk of discovery! Like we haven't run a cover-up before?"

The voice was weary under the weight of secrets. "I realize that it's in your nature to want to go off half-cocked, but if any of this gets out to the public – "

"It'd be a hell of a lot worse if it gets out to the public in the form of blood in the streets, which it WILL unless we can stop this thing! And if we wait that long, we won't be able to stop it!"

A third voice, younger and higher. "Which would make this whole debate pretty academic." A sigh, then an appeal. "We all appreciate the position you're in, sir, but things are moving too fast to be cautious now. They have the book, they have the sword, and now it seems they have a federal agent. With all due respect, isn't this sort of thing the reason this division exists in the first place?"

"Unfortunately," the other sighed back. Then he shook his head heavily. "_Necessitas non habet legem,_ as they say."

"As they say," the other echoed, with a shrug. "I'll contact Special Agent Malone first, and then inform the NYPD CSI unit. The usual protocol, sir?" A nod was sufficient answer.

"That's why they call it the usual protocol, kid," the first voice rumbled agreeably. "It's gonna feel good to finally get off our butts and do something about this."

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Chapter 4

CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

Chapter 4

Martin Fitzgerald felt light softly pushing on his eyelids, and fluttered them open. Dim bulbs hung naked from gray concrete; there was more gray concrete under and behind him, cold and not quite smooth. Something was pulling his arms straight up, biting into his wrists, not letting him bring hand to throbbing head…handcuffs. Probably his own at that, wound around a heavy conduit clamped high on the wall. Martin rolled his eyes up, incredulous: _Where the hell am I, and how did I get here?_

"Oh! You're awake!"

Instantly he glanced toward the quiet gasp, just a touch above a whisper. Across the concrete room, perched on a stool about five feet away between him and the gray metal door beyond, was a vague shape loosely draped in black fabric. In front of itself it clutched a big white square – a sketch pad – and an artist's pencil in pale hands; above the pad was the only other uncovered area, an even paler face. A face Martin recognized with no surprise: "Alexa Duhaine?" The sad green eyes looked to the floor, with no answer. "We've been looking for you."

"I know," she said, almost too low to hear. "I'm sorry. I never expected that."

Treading very lightly, desperate to read the situation, Martin kept his own voice soft and sympathetic. "Your colleagues and neighbors are very worried about you."

She sniffed. "I find that hard to believe." A vein of bitterness ran through the words.

"Believe it, Miss Duhaine – may I call you Lexi?" She nodded, still not looking at him. "You were only gone a day before the Metropolitan Museum brought in the FBI. I'm Special Agent Martin Fitzgerald, of the Missing Persons division."

"Well, consider me found." The bitterness remained. "Your loss and no one's gain, I'm afraid. I really am sorry; I never thought it would come to this. I was sure I could just drop out of sight for a little while and no one would notice – or maybe they'd be glad to be rid of me." With a swish of black cotton cloth, she rose from the stool, slowly turned away.

Panic stabbed him: _No, she can't leave now! I have to keep her talking, learn what's going on and why…_ Quietly, gently he said, "Lexi…you were sketching me, weren't you?" She squeezed her eyes shut and clasped the pad to her breast where she stood. "Please, may I see?"

"No!" The vehemence surprised him. "It's crude, just a scrawl. You don't want to."

Martin put on a sad, sweet smile. "You _were_ drawing me without my knowledge. Don't I deserve a look?" When she bit her lip and refused to look at him, he softened his tone even more. "Please?" Slowly she turned toward him, eyes still closed, and rotated the pad.

He caught his breath, almost disbelieving his eyes. Lexi Duhaine had created no quick impression of the eye, but a careful and detailed drawing in the classic style, and Martin himself was only the starting point. Yes, the figure was recognizably him; she had drawn him from the shoulders up, arms pulled above his head and wrists pinioned in chains, but to his surprise, the artist had undressed him – and with remarkable accuracy. The strained shoulders and whipcord muscle of the arms were uncannily close to the reality. She had taken even further, more astonishing liberties with her depiction: She had drawn a young man with the captive's face, eyes closed and head slumped against his cruelly pulled arm, but there was no unconsciousness or sleep in him. The eyes were squeezed shut against some horror too dark or glory too bright to bear; every line of the perfect countenance was strained in inseparable ecstasy and suffering, its beauty and its pain fused into a single exquisite passion – the face of a saint. "My God," he gasped.

Her face reddened within its black cocoon. "It's nothing."

"It's beautiful!" Reluctantly he forced his gaze from the intoxicating picture and looked to her. "I haven't seen anything close since the last time I was at the Met just to look. No wonder your curator had such high praise for you!" He noted how her blush deepened, and went on. "I didn't think anyone could still draw like that. Tell me, have you ever tried exhibiting your own work?"

Unexpectedly she glared hard at him. "Exhibit _this _sort of thing? It's not even art!"

"Not art? With all due respect, if that's not art, then what _is_?"

"Lay people just don't understand." Her glare had softened to a slightly amused condescension. "There's not much training in the visual arts in the FBI, is there?"

He smiled ruefully. "You got that right. We do have a few specialists in art theft and forgery, but I'm not one of them."

"Maybe there's too much training in the visual arts in my milieu. Suffice it to say that this sort of thing – " she tapped her pad – "was art once upon a time, but today it's mere illustration."

"So if Ingres or Vermeer were working today, they'd be mere illustrators?"

Lexi gave a bitter chuckle. "If Ingres or Vermeer were working today, it'd be with video cameras, electronic effects, and lots of subtext, _if_ they were even artists at all. Knowing their relation to the power structure, they'd probably be in advertising. And Leonardo da Vinci would be designing weapons. Let me explain." Her voice slipped into the cadence of the lecture hall. "The defining essence of art is transgression – the defying of boundaries."

"What sort of boundaries?" Martin wished desperately for a way to move this conversation on to something useful, but didn't yet see his chance…

"All sorts. Boundaries of gender, class, race, permissibility, everything. Until recently art was another way of justifying the power structure and establishing its boundaries, just like religion, philosophy, law, morality, science, _et cetera_. But now the job of the artist is to expose and subvert the power structure, through transgression of the boundaries which that structure must define to protect its own existence. A drawing like this – " again she tapped the pad – "might impress you visually, but what can you _learn_ from it about the power relations that define you? What can such an image actually _reveal_?Nothing!"

"Oh, I disagree. It may not exactly transgress anything, as you say, but it reveals something people rarely think of – something ultimately important."

"Oh?" Truculence had crept in. "What?"

He licked his lips, choosing his words carefully. "How a hero dies."

Lexi went silent the way a punctured beach ball goes limp. She stared at her drawing for a long time. Eventually she answered, all the pedagogical certainty leached from her tone. "That's the sort of thing art was about in the old days…Auden knew that: 'About suffering they were never wrong, the Old Masters'…" She looked at him, actually meeting his eyes for the first time; the sadness in hers surprised and almost frightened him. "That's why I do what I do. Conservation work, I mean. I've got the hand for it, and the eye; even if I don't have the heart and mind that it takes, at least I'm doing _something_. We're far beyond the prejudices and superstitions they had back then, but progress can't be everything…" She sighed, very deeply. "This way, I'll save more than anyone else when Europe goes down."

She'd trailed off, just as Martin felt her getting somewhere. "Go on."

Lexi repeated the sigh. "Europe is finished. Culturally, it's nothing but a time capsule – a time capsule containing almost everything in the world worth caring about. Painting, sculpture, architecture, music; my profession exists to preserve it. Our major enemy used to be only time, but soon the whole continent is going to be controlled by a culture permanently at war with most of it."

"Really?"

She nodded. "Think about it. Since 1970 over twenty million Muslims have emigrated to Europe legally, and no one can even count the illegals. Most came and are coming for economic opportunity; they have no intention of becoming culturally French or Swedish or Dutch or what have you. That in itself might not be a problem, but most of their mosques and leaders are Salafi or Wahhabi, running on Saudi money and fundamentalist doctrine. You know what that means, don't you?" When he looked at her innocently and shook his head, she went on, voice closer to trembling. "Church architecture, instrumental music, Christian and mythological subjects, the depiction of the visible world: all forbidden. The entire Western artistic tradition is a sin…and all probably going to be destroyed as soon as they have the political power to do it."

"You really think it'll come to that?"

A shudder. "Who wants to take the risk? Everyone saw what happened to the Buddhas of Bamiyan. It's less well known that the museum curators in Kabul only saved their collections by burying them. Considering European demographics, it's only a matter of time for the Prado, the Rijksmuseum, Notre-Dame-du-Paris, all of them. That's why I'm here, why I did it. One person's moral purity is a small price to pay to save humanity's greatest achievements."

Martin felt his heart speed up as he finally got close to some answers. He kept the innocent look and tone. "I don't understand."

"He promised me that if I helped him get the sword, he'd see to it that the great collections and cathedrals would be preserved unharmed to the limit of his ability."

"Who is he, and how could he make that promise?"

She shrugged, rippling the black drapery concealing her. "He makes us call him 'master.' Not that it means anything to me. He claims that the sword I – I helped him steal is a _dhu'l-fakar_ like the sword of the Prophet, which conveys spiritual and royal power. You probably didn't know that while Christian kings were anointed and crowned to symbolize their authority, Islamic kings were invested with royal swords. He says that possession of this sword makes him caliph of collective Islam – and once the _jihad_ succeeds, of the entire world." Another shrug. "Let him call himself whatever he wants, as long as he can talk his crazy friends out of burning the Louvre in ten years!"

"So it was you who turned off the security cameras and unlocked the door." Carefully Martin made himself sound sympathetic, with no hint of accusation as yet.

"I'm not ashamed to admit it to you, either. Yes, what I did was wrong, on the surface, but it's like being a rebel spy: you have to lie, cheat, even betray, but only for something far more important than your own integrity!"

"It wasn't just your integrity that was sacrificed, Lexi," Martin said quietly. "A guard was murdered. And if you don't mind admitting guilt to a federal agent…well… that's a pretty sure sign that I shouldn't count on walking out of here."

Lexi flushed again, scarlet set in black. "I had nothing to do with that! It was all Derek's idea, and he's a hyena! The old fanatic will listen to him, but never to me! Don't you think I'd have talked him out of it if he'd listen to a woman?" She was on her feet, near tears, the pad and pencil dropped and her voice rising to a scream. "I can't deal with it anymore! He couldn't have gotten his precious sword without me, but I still get treated like dirt by all of them! I even have to wear this goddamn _abaya_, and it's like wearing three layers of sacking – and I feel lucky he didn't force me all the way into a _burqa_! It's not my goddamn religion! It's not Derek's either, but they let him get away with normal clothes, and he's just as much an infidel as I am, if not more so!"

That was when the door banged open. Lexi instantly whirled in a blur of black, and let out a strangled cry when she saw the tall white-robed man in the doorway, glaring darkly at her from between his black-and-white-checkered _keffiyeh_ and his long, unkempt gray beard. With a shriek she grabbed up her sketch pad and rushed for the door, trying to push past him, but he grabbed her arms with long skinny fingers and held her in a grip that belied his age. "_Kufr_ whore!" he spat. "What are you doing in here alone with a man? Must I beat you to teach you proper conduct?"

Lexi squirmed uselessly. "NO! Please! I mean, he's in handcuffs; what could we be doing? I only wanted to draw a picture – "

The bearded man spat at her pad. "A picture! Remember this, you stupid cow: On the Day of Judgment, Allah shall bring your pictures before you and invite you to give them life as He gave life to His creations. And when you cannot, you and all the other creators of idols will be cast into the eternal fire along with your blasphemous works."

Lexi stopped squirming and stiffened in his grip, the pad flopping to her side. "Whatever. I can think of worse company for eternity than Caravaggio and Donatello. Please, can I go?"

With a glare of contempt, he snapped his grip as if casting her away in disgust. "The Word of Allah is true: 'Therefore the righteous women are devoutly obedient, and guard in absence what Allah would have them guard.' You are not to be alone with this man, or any other, behind a closed door; do you understand me?"

Lexi sighed. "Of course I understand you. But what does the Qu'ran say about the unrighteous women?"

He snorted through his beard. "You _kufr_ think mockery is so funny. But Allah is _al-Shadid al-'Iqab_, the Strict in Punishment, and to Him mockery is not funny at all. And the Holy Qu'ran also says: 'For the worst of beasts in the sight of Allah are those who reject Him: they will not believe.' You are lucky to still be alive, after all I have put up with from you." He folded his arms. "Go to your room. And keep that paper out of my sight or I shall be forced to burn it."

"Yes master, right away master, how high master," Lexi muttered as she passed on through the door, beating a retreat up the stairs.

Her footsteps rose out of earshot, leaving the concrete cellar silent except for Martin's heavy breathing as he tried to bottle up his indignation. Over folded arms, the robed man swept a satisfied gaze over his prisoner; when their eyes met, Martin felt that gaze, and his anger began to give way to an even more basic emotion.

xxxx

"Have you found any more leads on Derek Shaftoe?" Jack Malone came up behind Sam Spade and hovered at her shoulder, studying her computer screen.

"Nothing useful yet. Since that Village apartment of his turned up snake-eyes, I've been trying to find some other properties where he might go to earth." She gave a snort of frustration. "So far I've come up with nothing substantive. But if you want to read nostalgic metalheads gushing about how brilliant this creep is, I can get you a dumpster-load of that."

From her own cubicle, Vivian Johnson told much the same story. "For the kind of fortune this guy made in the nineties, I'm finding very little financial activity."

Malone looked up. "Maybe most of it went up his nose, like a lot of his colleagues. Or he could have a gambling problem."

"I don't think so, Jack." Fingers pecking at her keyboard like sparrows, Johnson rapidly shuffled between views of several credit and records databases. "I'm thinking more in terms of pseudonyms, dummy corporations, that sort of thing."

"I think Viv's on to something." A tense Danny Taylor rose from his own research. "There was something definitely wrong about this guy, something creepy."

"Which certainly isn't incompatible with expensive addictions," Malone reminded them all.

"No, of course not, Jack, but that's not what I mean," Danny persisted. "He could have a jones or two; it wouldn't surprise me a bit if he did. In fact, it'd surprise me if he _didn't_. I mean something else…it's hard to explain."

"Keep trying," Johnson urged him.

"He was..._secretive_. Not in any sophisticated way, though; definitely the guy's not a good actor, or a good liar. More like a little kid with a secret that he's just bursting to tell someone, but can't, at least not yet. Am I making any sense?"

"You're making a lot of sense," affirmed Malone. "Especially if that secret is about how he and Martin slipped out of that bar in an eyeblink without being seen by anyone. Meanwhile, keep at it. Has anyone heard from the CSIs yet?"

"They haven't called," Danny answered. "I guess they're still processing that stuff they picked up at the scene."

As if on cue, Malone's telephone jangled. "Maybe that's them now. Malone." He listened…and listened. As the seconds passed by without their commander responding, the others looked up from their work and waited, wondering. And as they waited, Malone's face suddenly darkened, and he slammed down the phone without having spoken a word into it.

"Jack?" asked a worried Johnson. "Why'd you hang up?"

"_He_ did first," Malone growled. "After claiming to be from a special-ops Bureau division, knowing about the Met robbery and Lexi Duhaine, and demanding a meeting with us at three-thirty – at a location _he_ chose."

Sam came to her feet. "Jack, I'm coming! If they have Martin – "

"We're all going together," Malone declared. "And whether they have Martin or not, we're going to get some answers."

xxxx

At the NYPD crime lab, Mac Taylor was quietly relieved that Danny Messer and Aiden Burn had been called out to an unrelated crime scene. He and Stella Bonasera had briefly discussed bringing in the two to consult on this case, but in the end they agreed on the only possible decision. No doubt it would have been both useful and comforting to have the help of their younger colleagues, but the mysterious vanishing of the FBI's man showed that the stakes had risen too high – as had the risks.

"Come and have a look at this, Mac," said Bonasera in a mere whisper. As Taylor approached, she indicated the petri dish where she had mounted the three curved black objects found in the bar. "Do you make anything of them?"

"No," an admiring glance at her, "but I'll bet you already have."

"Not exactly," she admitted, "but I finally found an analogue. Look here." She fitted a slide under the stereoscopic microscope, whose lenses were set to a low magnification.

Taylor peered in to see an array of small black curves like tiny versions of the ones in the dish. "Interesting. What are these?"

"This is where it gets too interesting." She swallowed to clear her throat. "That slide shows exoskeleton samples from the leg of a cricket."

He looked from the microscope to his colleague. "I was afraid it was something like that. So what on earth is this? Immense bits of chitin?" He picked up the petri dish, studying the black curves, not wanting to believe the size of them.

"Unless chemical analysis shows anything different, and so far it hasn't. What about that stuff you collected?"

"Glad you asked – I think." Now it was the turn of his petri dish and the slimy, pale lump within. "I ran the usual tests on this. As far as I can tell, the stuff is just a common mix of saliva and nasal mucus…with one difference." Moving efficiently and without flourish, he pinched a slip of litmus paper between his thumb and forefinger, swept it across the sample, and held it up. Bonasera's eyes widened as red flamed across the test slip like a flush of anger, and Taylor went on coolly, "As I said, one difference: a pH approximately that of sulfuric acid. Whoever produced this could spit through an inch of drywall."

For a moment she forgot to breathe. "My God, Mac…what could we possibly be dealing with?"

His eyes were grim. "I should say that I wish I knew…but part of me isn't eager to find out." The voice dropped low and quiet. "If 'the sleep of reason produces monsters,' that rumble you hear outside isn't traffic, Stella; it's reason snoring."

"And she's having a nightmare…"

Neither could say anything more at the moment.

They were rescued from silence by the telephone. "Taylor." Bonasera watched her chief as he listened; his eyes widened in astonishment at first, then narrowed and went hot. Finally he spoke. "I'll need your name and shield number for confirmation." A few more seconds of listening, then Taylor lowered the phone from his ear, staring at it as if it had betrayed him; then he closed and pocketed it, and turned to answer her unasked question. "That supposedly was the FBI."

"Not Agent Malone." It was a statement, not a question.

"No, and wouldn't give me a name. He said that they're aware of our investigation, and want to share some information about the robbery at the Met." He paused. "Stella…he said they know how and why James Abbott died."

"But _we_ don't even know that! And when their people were here, they were just as much at a loss as we are!" She considered. "I wonder who debriefed Agents Malone and Johnson…"

"_I_ wonder why we were just told to come to the address of a private garbage hauler instead of the federal building."

"_What!_" Bonasera stared at him incredulously.

Taylor nodded. "He was very specific. We're to come to Waste Management Services at three-thirty."

"That place down on the West Side, near the rail yards?" He nodded again. "Why there?"

"I don't know. And why did he specify the three of us by name?" Answering her further astonishment, he went on, "They want me, you, and Flack. No one else. That's exactly what he said."

"This doesn't sound good, Mac. We'll need backup."

He slowly shook his head. "They were way ahead of you. He made sure to point out that if we're followed, they'll know, and we'll get nothing."

The color was draining from Bonasera's face. "I don't think that call came from the feds."

"I don't either. I think whoever set up Malone's team is now doing us the honor of our own trap."

She didn't need to state her agreement. "Are you going to go?"

"You and Flack must decide for yourselves." He almost smiled. "I'm going."

"Not alone." She was firm. "And I know Flack will say the same."

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. Chapter 5

CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

Chapter 5

It was a tense and bewildered group of NYPD detectives that met an apprehensive one of FBI agents as their cars pulled up before the wrought-iron gates. "It's good to see you here," Detective Taylor declared to Agent Malone as they left their vehicles and recognized each other. "Now maybe we'll get some answers."

Malone shrugged as he turned to look at the gates and the immense brick lump of the building beyond. "Not from us."

"Why not? We got a call from the FBI asking us to be here now." Taylor also looked toward the ugly edifice that squatted like a resting boar behind the black metal bars. With a glance he indicated the modest sign identifying WASTE MANAGEMENT SERVICES. "I'd really like to know why."

"Frankly, so would we," Malone replied. "We got a call too; he claimed to be from FBI special ops. No further explanation. If there's a task force or special unit assigned to this case, it'd be nice to be told about it, especially considering that a member of my team disappeared two hours ago in the course of this investigation."

Flack's eyes narrowed coldly. "Yeah, that was fun. Now I really, _really_ want to know who called us here – and for what." Among the seven of them, eyes met and hands began to reach for weapons.

Detective Bonasera's gaze had gone to the door of the building; she was the first to see it open, and a small figure grow rapidly larger as it approached. "Looks as if we're about to find out."

It was an earnest-looking, nondescript young man who came towards them, with brown hair, blue suit, and a bemused expression that turned worried when he saw the guns. "Oh, dear. You guys really don't need those." He raised both hands placatingly. "Special Agent John Myers, FBI. I'll show you my badge if you can keep from shooting me." When only Bonasera and Johnson lowered their weapons, he went on, "Come on, it's seven to one. How much damage could I do before getting perforated like a balloon in a rosebush?"

"Man's got a point," Danny Taylor conceded, lowering his gun. His NYPD namesake did the same, as did Malone. Now with only Spade and Flack covering the stranger and the others watching warily, the young man reached slowly into his jacket and came out with a familiar-looking leather folder, flipping it open.

Malone came up to the bars of the gate to examine John Myers' credentials. Still wary but convinced, he announced, "He's real." With a nod, he cued the stowing of all their weapons. Now, coolly he turned from sizing up the ID to doing the same to the man who held it. "So you're one of us. Mind telling us which office you're with, which division, and why the hell we're being put through all this cloak-and-dagger crap?"

The earnest young face looked a little pained. "Really, I'm sorry. It wasn't my idea. I know you're all worried about Agent Fitzgerald, and I'd have handled this differently, but this is standard operating procedure at – at this division." He stepped back to allow the iron gates to swing open. "Please, come in. You deserve some answers, and I promise you'll get them."

xxxx

The man in the white robes and _keffiyeh_ didn't waste more than a brief glance on the captive FBI agent before looking through the door and up the stairs. He gave a piercing whistle as if calling dogs; within seconds footsteps, several sets of them, were rattling downwards. Soon four more men had arrived in the room. All were of a dark Middle Eastern cast; three seemed to be in their twenties, dressed nearly alike in nondescript jeans and t-shirts, while the last was older, maybe forty, in pressed khakis and a navy polo shirt. All three of the younger ones sported the patchy beginnings of beards, while the fourth had a full black beard, well trimmed in keeping with his overall neat and mature appearance. Interestingly, he was the only one not wearing a handgun. Now he held back a little, staying near the door as the leader spoke rapidly and emphatically in what Martin guessed was Arabic.

Soon enough, the three young men variously nodded and grunted assent, then returned up the stairs. At that point the old man turned his attention to the remaining man, handed him a handcuff key, and, to Martin's surprise, switched to English. "Your task is to watch the prisoner. If he has physical needs, call Mansour to help you. And give the alarm if he tries to escape."

"Of course, _malik_," the other answered in a heavy, musical accent. He looked over at his charge; Martin was surprised to see sympathy in his eyes. "Shall I attempt _da'wa_ while I have this chance? There might be a possibility – "

A derisive snort cut him off. "Don't be a fool. He has surely had a chance to know and embrace the truth before now. Have you forgotten the words of the Holy Qu'ran? 'If We had so willed, We could certainly have brought every soul its true guidance: but the Word from Me will come true, "I will fill Hell with jinns and men all together".' Or do you presume to know better?"

"Oh no, surely not." He smiled; it looked a little forced. "You can count on me to keep careful watch."

"Good." With that, the leader swept out in a wave of white. The other man carefully closed the door, turned the lock, and sat down on the stool lately occupied by Lexi Duhaine. He folded his arms, put on a stern expression, and proceeded to glower at his charge as if that were part of the assignment.

In that fierce and obviously unaccustomed look, Martin thought he saw an opening. He put on a disarming smile and said lightly, "Listen, you can relax for a while. It's not as if I'm about to make my move." He rattled the handcuffs by way of demonstration, and widened the smile. "My name's Martin Fitzgerald. I'd say Special Agent, but that's not likely to impress you, given the circumstances."

And to his secret relief, his guard smiled back. "I'm impressed that you can keep your sense of humor, given the circumstances! I am Iftikhar Ghani."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Ghani. Sort of." Ghani's smile became a chuckle, and Martin felt more confident: _Good one, Martin. Now take it nice and slow…_ "So you scored babysitting duty. I assume 'physical needs' means the men's room?" Ghani nodded. "That's good to know. But why do you need Mansour's help for that?"

The other touched his hand to his right hip. "Because Mansour has a gun. Yes, you're quite an amiable fellow, but I am not about to be charmed into forgetting that you're also an FBI agent."

"Believe me, I had no hope of doing that! I can tell you're too intelligent to fall for a little fast talk. Really, though, why doesn't your boss let you have a gun too? That way you could handle me all by yourself."

Another chuckle. "Oh, I am not so sure of that! You are younger than I, probably stronger and faster too, and surely better trained in fighting."

"All the better reason to give you a gun."

"I know." Ghani looked at the floor for a moment, and his tone was rueful. "The _malik_ knows that I am loyal to the _jihad_, and that I am not afraid to die…but he cannot trust me fully. Not like the others."

"What others? Not Miss Duhaine."

"Of course not!" Ghani snickered at the thought. "And not that disgusting so-called musician, either. I mean Mansour, Samir, and Abdelaziz. They are of the blood of the original believers, an honour I cannot share."

"I don't understand." Martin was completely honest about that: he didn't understand at all.

"I am Baluchi – a Pakistani." His gaze fell to the floor again, and this time stayed there. "The _malik_ can only give his full trust to his fellow Arabs. I cannot even speak the language, or understand the Holy Qu'ran as Allah gave it. I am only the descendant of idol worshippers."

"So? Languages can be learned. Besides, go back far enough in history, and everyone's descended from idol worshippers."

"And many still are," Ghani said pointedly.

"_Touche._ But still, why judge a man's loyalty on his blood and not his character?"

Ghani shook his head. "You are American as well as infidel. You will never understand." Another shake. "I wish you could. I wish all of you could."

"What I wish I could understand," Martin said quietly, "is why you want to be part of this _jihad_ thing in the first place."

Ghani shrugged. "It was not an easy decision to make. I have been working in this country since I was nineteen, and I thought I was content. The community where I live in Jersey City is close and supportive, my wife respects me properly, and I never thought I would have to take this step."

"So what changed?"

"It's my son, my eldest. I had such hopes for him, but since he turned thirteen…" His head fell into his hands. "What will become of him? And what example does he set for his brother and sister? What do I do?"

Martin nodded. "It's always hard raising kids."

"Not like this!" Frustration hissed in Ghani's words. "He no longer will join me at the mosque without a fight, and he refuses to rise in time for dawn prayers – some days I cannot make him pray at all! All he wants to do is listen to that horrible, horrible American music! Maroon 5? Coldplay? Bowling for Soup – _Bowling for Soup_! Who _are_ these madmen? How can anyone endure such noise, let alone a boy raised a good Muslim?"

Martin suppressed a smile. He certainly wasn't about to describe what he had on his own iPod, but one could easily sympathize with a distressed parent. "I know it can drive you nuts, but that's teenagers for you. I remember that when I reached that point, it got a lot harder to drag me to church. Not to mention that my mother had it up to her neck with Talking Heads and REM."

It didn't work. If anything, Ghani got angrier. "It's not the same! You are not a Muslim; my son is. Why should someone raised with the most beautiful music of all – the chanting of the Holy Qu'ran – desire the screaming of sodomites and Jews?" He sighed heavily, as if letting the anger dissipate to make room for sadness. "He had been saving his pocket money for months. I was hoping that he would invest it toward his first _hajj_ trip with me. Can you imagine how disappointed I was when he brought home an _electric guitar_? With one of those horrible loud amplifiers! It was appalling. I had to confiscate it at once!"

"What did you do with it?" Martin asked quietly.

"Well, I didn't burn or break it, although I still want to. His mother prevailed upon me simply to hide it away. I wish I had been able to ignore her tears."

Carefully keeping emotion off his face, Martin thought of an angle to play. "If I recall correctly, the guitar – the original acoustic kind – is a Moorish instrument that was brought to Spain by Muslims. So that makes Les Paul's invention the perfect blend of cultures: Islamic artistry and American technology." The captive chanced a gentle smile. "Maybe your son understands that instinctively."

"Well, I do not! Nor do I want to! You only prove the _malik_'s point: that the only way to protect the Islamic _ummah_ from this disease you call your culture is to destroy it."

And there was the opening he'd been waiting for. "But how?"

To Martin's surprise, Ghani suddenly became uneasy – profoundly uneasy. "I am not the one to ask. The _malik_ has a book, a very old and strange book; we are not permitted to read or even touch it. And he says that this sword from the museum is _dhu'l-fakar_, like the sword of the Prophet, peace be upon him." He stopped to look around nervously, as if they might be watched. "The jinns – if they are…"

Suddenly the door banged open. "Oi! Ghani! It's my turn!"

Startled, Ghani tried to leap from the stool and whirl toward the door at once, almost stumbling to the concrete. With a stab of disappointment and rage, Martin recognized Derek Shaftoe sauntering in. "What are you doing here?" Ghani demanded.

"Master says I can have him for a bit." Shaftoe was holding something shiny in his right hand; as he approached, it resolved into a hunting knife. A large hunting knife, curving to an upswept point and with a serrated ridge along the back edge. Standing before prisoner and guard, he began tossing it up to spin and catching it, casually, an unpleasant smile on his lips. Martin found himself idly wishing that he'd miss his rhythm and grab the wrong end.

"Well, I do not believe you! The – the _malik_ will have to tell me himself." Ghani stood defiantly, fists clenched, but trembling slightly. _What's he afraid of?_ the captive wondered. _This sleazeball Shaftoe? Their leader? Both…or something else?_

"Ah, don't worry about it, Iftikhar darlin'. I'm just here to check our fed's reflexes. You know, do the knees jerk when someone says 'America,' does the heart race when he sees the flag…does he hold his breath when the knife comes close?" Shaftoe caught the hilt, raised the blade and turned it slowly, his smile metastasizing.

"Get out of here, Shaftoe," Ghani said almost calmly. "I have no orders to let you hurt him."

"Bloody hell! It was my bloody idea to take him in the first place!" The knife flashed, its point a centimeter from Ghani's nose.

"You must go now." The Pakistani's voice was somewhat less emphatic.

"Well, aren't we the big brave wog," growled the other, slowly moving in and making another pass with the knife. "You want to take the first swing?"

Ghani stepped back, looking uncertain. Just then there was motion at the open door; Shaftoe turned, and all eyes went to the white-clad figure that stood there, glowering from under his _keffiyeh_. In his hands he cradled an antique book; at his left hip hung the stolen sword. "What is the meaning of this?" In a brief pause, neither of his men could get over the intimidation before he snapped, "Get out, both of you." His eyes zeroed on Martin Fitzgerald. "I have something to show him."

xxxx

"What the hell kind of place is this?" Detective Flack was the one to say it, but all his companions were thinking it. The inside didn't match the outside at all, particularly in the matter of the mysterious symbols etched and inlaid across the marble floors and the many sealed, climate-controlled glass cases holding books, scrolls, and far less identifiable objects that looked positively antediluvian.

Special Agent John Myers cleared his throat. "Special Agents, Detectives," he began, "it's my honor to welcome you to the FBI's Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense."

"Holy crap," Agent Danny Taylor said softly. "This isn't supposed to exist."

"And we wish profoundly that it didn't have to." All eyes went to the deep, almost mournful new voice, and watched the approach of a tall, broad man, elegant in a tailored suit, eyes melancholy beneath a bald head. "I also wish you never had to learn of it."

Jack Malone's face lit up with recognition – and bewilderment. "Dr. Manning? Dr. Tom Manning? Aren't you supposed to be at Quantico?"

"In a just and rational world, I would be." The new arrival permitted himself a smile. "It's good to meet you at last, Special Agent Malone. With you and your team on this case, I have my first reason to feel confident about it."

Malone smiled back. "Thank you, Dr. Manning, and here's your second reason to feel confident: Allow me to introduce Detectives Mac Taylor, Stella Bonasera, and Don Flack, NYPD."

Once hands were shaken and introductions completed all around, Manning led the way deeper into the secret installation. As they went down seemingly endless corridors and levels lower and lower, the questions continued. "So what kind of cases do you handle here, Dr. Manning?" Vivian Johnson asked almost innocently.

"The kind that no other division can believe are real," Manning replied cryptically, "and that the public could not accept without chaos resulting."

"Hence the hush-hush," Sam Spade reasoned. "Who _does_ know about you?"

"The President and Vice President, of course, chairmen of a few relevant Senate and House committees, and the top levels of the Bureau, the NSA, and Homeland Security. In fact, as you'll hear at the briefing, there's an important Homeland Security angle on this case. Also, Deputy Director Victor Fitzgerald has taken a personal interest in the matter." Manning cleared his throat. "I understand the agent who went missing today is his son."

"Yes," Sam replied quietly.

The two CSIs had hung toward the back of the party, quietly taking in the strange sights they passed and occasionally exchanging skeptical glances. Their colleague Don Flack stuck close to John as if afraid of getting lost. "This place gives me the creeps," he muttered.

"That's pretty much par for the course when you're new here," the young agent replied. "I felt the same way. You get used to it. It's also good to know that nothing paranormal – at least nothing we're experienced in – can surveil or enter this building."

"How do you figure that?" The tall detective was still looking around anxiously.

"Well, we have the whole headquarters warded." Answering Flack's look of incomprehension, John explained, "Special symbols are placed and – uh – procedures performed to protect the BPRD from hostile influences."

Flack's eyes widened. "You mean someone's put a friggin' _spell_ on this place?"

"More like six or seven, actually."

"You know, that doesn't make me feel any better."

Up at the front of the group, Malone was continuing the questioning of the BPRD director. "I guess I can assume you know everything we do about this case, Dr. Manning."

"Not in detail. The briefing will be useful on all sides, Agent Malone. We have the general outlines, of course: the disappearances of Alexa Duhaine and the Ottoman sword from the Metropolitan Museum, and we now have a copy of the autopsy report on the murdered guard. By the way, Detective Taylor," Manning looked back over his shoulder to address him, "that ME of yours, Dr. Hawkes, is remarkable. If he ever gets bored with the kind of cases he's been getting, I have a job for him here where he can learn a lot."

The criminalist smiled, though he wanted to laugh. "With your permission, I'll let him know, Dr. Manning. By the way, you're not about to tell us how you obtained that autopsy report, are you?"

"I'm afraid I can't. You understand, don't you?"

Taylor looked again at his strange surroundings. "I think I do now."

Manning nodded and returned his attention to Malone. "Things took on a certain urgency after Agent Fitzgerald vanished. Of course, we're aware that you're also looking for that retired Nineties rock singer, Derek Shaftoe."

Malone nodded. "He's pretty slippery. We've found out a little, but unfortunately, not where to go looking for him."

"We can definitely help with that. For example, if you can just bring in something that belongs to him, there's a member of my team that can do a psychometric reading."

"Psychometric reading?" Evidently the term was new to Bonasera.

Manning turned to her with an explanation. "People's property, especially if frequently touched, often picks up a psionic impression, which someone with the proper sensitivity can then track to the source."

Bonasera's interested look instantly turned sour; her partner declared with a touch of scorn, "When the NYPD crime lab was entrusted to me, I saw it as our job to trust the evidence and not waste precious time and resources chasing phantoms."

With a sad and understanding smile, Manning gazed at them. "Ah, scientists. I was one of you – once."

"He's got a point, Dr. Manning," Malone said diplomatically. "I've spent fifteen years in Missing Persons. Families are always calling in psychics to help, and they've never broken or solved a single case. All they seem to do is get in the way."

They had stopped before a door, a thick steel door suitable not for a room nor even a wing, but a vault. Manning said in a tone of utter seriousness, "Agent Malone, Detective Taylor, I'm familiar with your teams. It's time you met mine." He nodded to his subordinate. "Let's go in, Myers."

TO BE CONTINUED


	6. Chapter 6

CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

Chapter 6

As the white-draped figure swept into the basement prison, a black-draped one, smaller and less erect, followed silently. Martin was bewildered: _Why has he brought Lexi Duhaine here?_ If this had something to do with her drawing of him…if some sort of punishment was coming up, would it be possible to talk their way out of it? Not likely…

The old man came up to his captive, inclining slightly to address him. Martin saw the beginnings of a smile – a cold, triumphant one, no more inviting than the earlier scowl. "Prepare to see something that will astound you!" he promised. "You Westerners are always boasting about your powerful communications technology; now I will show you the ancient powers of my people. Next to this, all your televisions and cell phones and satellites are mere toys!" He waited for a response; with none forthcoming, the smile turned downward, and he switched attention to Lexi. "Prepare the mirror!"

She didn't look at either man as she knelt at Martin's side. In her right hand she held a tiny bottle; as both watched, she unstoppered it, cupped her left, and poured a puddle of ink into its hollow. As Martin wondered what this could possibly mean, he heard the order: "Now look. Look well, and believe what you see!"

There wasn't much else he could do. Sitting up and positioning himself as best he could, Martin fixed his gaze on the tiny black pool soiling the young woman's hand and tried to imagine why. Above their heads the master of the place had opened the old book and began to read the Arabic in a low, rapid monotone.

Just as the prisoner was ready to defy the ridiculous command in a spasm of bored exasperation, _something_ happened – what, he couldn't exactly say. But the smooth black surface, while still black, was something more; there was an image in it, some sort of reflection forming. As he watched, it resolved into the reflection of a room – and not this room. Clear as print, he saw a warren of cubicles, desks, men and women seated at computers or striding on errands; in a space barely an inch across, somehow he could discern scale and detail worthy of a movie screen. "My God," he couldn't help exclaiming, "that's the FBI office!"

"Quite right," came the gloating answer. Without looking at him, Martin could tell the triumphant smile was back and wider than before. "Can you see your team there? Desperately searching for a way to find you – and failing?"

He peered closer, still more curious than afraid, and scanned the tiny image for tinier faces. He recognized them: colleagues from the Fraud and Organized Crime units, over there the Special Agent in Charge hurrying toward something, all utterly unaware they were watched…but four faces in particular were missing. "Uh…no. They're not there." His sudden sense of relief was only partial.

"_What!_" The old man glared down into Lexi's hand, and was not at all pleased to agree with his prisoner. "Hmm…" He consulted the book out loud again. The image shimmered and was replaced with another, a room full of white tile and shining steel surfaces. It took Martin a moment to identify it as a crime lab. Two young people in lab coats conferred earnestly at the heart of the image: an intense blond man in glasses and a striking young woman, her long dark hair even darker against the white of her coat. Martin wondered why he was being shown this.

From the old man's irritated glare at this new surveillance, he might have been wondering the same thing. When he recited again, his voice was noticeably sharper. This third view was of a tall iron gate, behind it a forbidding brick building and in front a few parked cars. Nothing moved. In answer to a fourth command, the last image only faded away, leaving the flat black surface of a tiny puddle of ink in a woman's hand.

"What is the meaning of this? Where are they?" The book shook in his hands; sunken black eyes flared with anger at Lexi Duhaine.

"How the hell should I know?" she snarled back, matching him rage for rage. "_You're_ the great and terrible wizard. I'm nothing but a goddamn _pedestal_ here!" She flung the ink in a black splash to soil the floor and climbed to her feet slowly, the folds of her _abaya _impeding her. "Can I go wash my hands, already?"

Her blast of anger seemed to help him control his. He considered for a moment, then dismissed her with a nod. "Go." A cold dark gaze turned on the chained man. "I have something far greater to show him."

XXXX

Thick steel bolts slid back on the vault door; it swung open on near-darkness rich with a mix of domestic aromas. Before the new arrivals could see any details, they smelled beef and tomato sauce, rich cigar smoke, an acrid note of litter-box…then their eyes began to catch up with their noses. On the table near the middle of the room, the half-empty bowl, or vat, of spaghetti bolognese had to be about two feet across; a quart-sized water goblet was next to it. Someone – or rather, something – was sitting beside the table, pushed away as if just finished. Its – his? – left hand held a freshly lit cigar; resting in his lap was a right hand easily twice as big, with room in it for a litter of kittens to tumble and play. All talk ceased; the loudest sound in the vault was the soft mewing coming from between the immense fingers. The seven strangers stared in utter bewilderment; Manning and John were content for now to let them stare.

He looked up from the kittens to his speechless audience. Was that a shifting of shadows on somewhat humanoid features, or was the being smiling? Still silent, he stuck the cigar in the corner of his mouth and gently lowered the kittens to the floor, letting them roll happily onto the carpet. Once they were safely clear of his immense booted feet, he stood up.

It was hard not to recoil at the sight. Looming up before them was some sort of _thing_ that stood almost seven feet tall and must have weighed well over three hundred pounds. Where loose, well-worn khaki shirt and trousers did not cover the huge and muscular form, the skin was a ruby-deep red, from the flat stumps that must have once been horns on the forehead to the end of a long, twitching tail. As if to tease them by showing off his hands, he rested them on his hips: on the left one of red-skinned flesh, of a size fitting the rest of him; the right hand seemingly surfaced with crimson stone and far, far too big even for such a giant body. Golden eyes, small and probing in deep sockets, seemed to take the measure of each of them. He basked in their incredulous stares for close to a full minute, and finally was the one to break the silence. "Well?"

There was another brief, astonished interval as they realized the unprecedented being before them had spoken. Somehow, Don Flack was the first to respond. With a nervous catch in his voice, which was much quieter than usual, he managed to ask, "Are – are you…what you look like?"

He took the cigar from his mouth; the thin smile widened in the crimson face. "A federal employee? Yeah, I am."

A wave of answering smiles and even chuckles spread over them as the tension of first contact was broken. And now Jack Malone, who had been paralyzed in place with wide eyes and frozen tongue, stepped forward to the front line of the group and entered the unearthly thing's private territory. He didn't sound fearful or tentative at all. "I've been hearing the rumors and stories for years, but never thought that one day I would be privileged to learn the truth about the Bureau's oldest and most intriguing legend." He strode right up to the creature and extended his hand. "It is truly an honor to meet you, Special Agent Hellboy."

The great stone hand reached forth and enveloped Malone's fragile one of flesh – but with a gentleness that could have balanced an egg. "Nice of you to say so. And you can call me Red, if you like that better."

All the visitors were all coming closer, eager to meet and even touch him themselves, as his BPRD colleagues stayed back to watch with a certain satisfaction. Agent Danny Taylor almost stepped on a kitten in his eagerness, but caught himself in time. "So all those wild stories were true after all." Eyes now wide with wonder instead of fear, he reached tentatively toward Hellboy's head, aiming at the flat remains of the horns. "May I?"

To the surprise of all seven of them, the great scarlet other drew back a step. "I'd rather you didn't." He presented the stone right hand to Danny. "You're gonna have to settle for this."

"Be glad to." The young agent accepted his handshake. "But I have to ask: Those horns must have been really something. Why'd you cut them off?"

Behind the group, Tom Manning winced and John Myers looked very worried, but Hellboy responded calmly and with his own rough grace. "If old Joe Stalin had fondled part of _your_ body when you were only a little kid, you'd have cut it off too."

"Depends on the part," Danny answered with a grin.

Hellboy grinned back. "You're all right, kid. What's your name?"

"Yes, we really should introduce ourselves." Vivian Johnson stepped forward to do so for the Missing Persons team. Hellboy seemed especially intrigued by the fourth one presented to him. "Agent _Sam Spade_?"

"That's right," Sam replied proudly. "You could say my mom was quite a judge of aptitude. Can I pick up one of your kittens?"

"Sure, as long as you're gentle. I can tell that won't be a problem for you." She smiled at him as she raised a tiny tabby bundle, and he turned his attention to the three remaining strangers. "You guys aren't with the Bureau, are you?"

"No, sir. NYPD." Stella Bonasera did the honors. "Detectives Stella Bonasera and Mac Taylor, CSIs, and Detective Don Flack."

"Nice to meet you. You guys do great work. With the way you dissect every crime scene in town, I'm amazed you haven't caught me yet."

"Thank you, sir," Taylor replied. "I for one won't be so quick to dismiss the _Weekly World News_ from now on!"

"The _New York Times_, on the other hand…" Flack added waggishly.

They all got to laugh again before Manning stepped in. "It's good to see everyone getting along so well, but we've got to get to that briefing and there's someone else to meet before we do…" Hellboy joined the group as they left his vault and headed farther along the corridor after Manning.

The next room they entered had a less forbidding door, but an even more bewildering occupant. The main furniture they saw was a vast aquarium, of a size to hold a large porpoise or small whale. It held neither. Inside the tank was something disturbingly like a man, with the proportions and limbs of a man, but otherwise unique. Its skin gleamed, sky blue striped with softer, darker blue. Spine, calves, and upper arms were trimmed with low fins, and unmistakable gills flanked the neck. Before the tank were placed four lecterns and four books; a young woman was reaching quickly among them, turning pages with practiced speed as the piscine being read them with immense ink-black, liquid-looking eyes. The page-turner looked around as the group entered, and a moment later the reader looked up from his books. The black-pool eyes, already bright with a devastating intelligence, flashed with surprise and pleasure. Below those eyes were two slim slits where a nose should be, and a stiff, lipless moue of a mouth.

Sam almost dropped the kitten she had brought with her. "Oh…my…God," she gasped.

The deep dark gaze touched on her. A slightly electronic voice came from a speaker mounted near the top of the tank as the little mouth moved. "I must admit to being almost as surprised as you, miss, but thoroughly pleased as well. I so rarely get to meet new people."

"Today's going to make up for a long stretch, Abe," Hellboy said heartily.

"So I see." He swam back a stroke from the tank wall, the better to take in the whole gathering. Manning had dismissed the young agent with a nod (Sam handed her the kitten to be returned to its litter), and only the lecterns obscured the piscine's view. He looked across their faces, taking in detail as if memorizing them, but when he noticed one in particular, he raised his webbed fingers in astonishment. If the awesome eyes could have widened, they would have. "My goodness! It's really him – really _you_!"

It took a moment before Malone realized just who was meant. "What – me?"

"Indeed! This is certainly an honor, sir." Obviously delighted, the creature Hellboy had addressed as "Abe" began to recite: "'Did ye see John Malone, wid' his shinin' brand-new hat/ Did ye see how he walked like a grand aristocrat/ There was flags an' banners wavin' high, an' dress an' style were shown/ But the best of all the company was Mr. John Malone!'"

Malone's face went almost as red as Hellboy's, but he recovered his poise quickly and tried to divert the subject. "That's got to be Kipling."

"Indeed, sir; the epigraph from 'The Solid Muldoon,' from the seminal collection _Soldiers Three_. And if I may be so bold, you've got to be the remarkable Special Agent whose Missing Persons unit has the highest case-closure rate of any such in the FBI!"

Behind said Special Agent, Detective Taylor was smiling. "Looks like there's more than one legend in the Bureau."

Johnson briefly switched her attention from the fish-humanoid to the criminalist. "And it's about time Jack admitted it."

Now John Myers stepped forward. "Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce Special Agent Abraham Sapien. He has some unique talents that we think will help us crack this case wide open."

"I've got a feeling," said Danny, looking at the four lecterns with their open books, "that one of them is a photographic memory."

"You got some smart feelings," Hellboy confirmed.

"Which implies that another of Agent Sapien's talents is encyclopedic knowledge," said Detective Taylor as he came closer and started reading the titles of Sapien's books. "_Process and Reality: An Essay in Cosmology_ by Alfred North Whitehead; _The Idea of Decline in Western History_ by Arthur Herman; not a clue as to what this is…"

His partner leaned in closer; her eyebrows arched up at the sight of the third title. "That's the _Anabasis_ of Xenophon, in the original Greek! Cool. And this is…" The eyebrows went up farther as she addressed the thing in the tank directly. "_The Jane Austen Book Club_?"

"A delight, particularly once one is familiar with Miss Austen's complete _oeuvre_," Agent Sapien replied unflappably.

"Really." Bonasera looked again at the fourth book. "Maybe I should check it out."

"I recommend that in both senses of the word," Sapien said. "In his capacity of pick-up and delivery for me, Agent Myers has made himself famous at the Mid-Manhattan branch of the New York Public Library."

"Famous isn't the half of it," John agreed wryly. "The circulation clerks duck behind the desk when they see me coming with my handcart."

The director of the BPRD took that as his cue. "All right, John, we'll finish the introductions in the briefing room once Abe is out of his tank and dried off." He paused to wipe his wide brow with a handkerchief, and the others could notice that he alone did not seem relaxed or intrigued during these proceedings. "It's about time we get down to business…and a high-stakes business it is."

TO BE CONTINUED


	7. Chapter 7

CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

Chapter 7

The BPRD's briefing room was no more institutional than the rest of the place. The Missing Persons and Crime Scene units were frankly envious of the comfortable upholstered chairs in a setting of laden bookshelves and gentle low light; the projection screen against the far wall looked rather like an afterthought. But all eyes were on it. John ran through the images at Dr. Manning's direction. "We're pretty certain of who was in the Metropolitan arms and armor galleries on Wednesday night, helping himself to a certain artifact," the BPRD director began. The image on the big screen was of a scowling man on the far side of sixty, wrapped in a checkered _keffiyeh_ over a white robe. The picture itself was slightly out of focus, as if taken surreptitiously from a distance and blown up a bit too big. "Meet Jibril Khalid al-Ghul. There are a few gaps in his dossier, but it's detailed enough to worry the CIA and Homeland Security big-time."

"Really," Agent Johnson mused. "Details?"

"We're getting there," Manning assured her. "He's disseminated his own set of details, in a classic effort of self-mythologizing. He claims to have been born into a poor farming family in Haifa in 1948 a week before Israel's declaration of independence, and been driven into exile at his mother's breast. Very touching story, but the record shows he was actually born to rich horse-breeders, distaff cousins of the al-Sauds, in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia in 1940. Interestingly, his fellow jihadists buy his story even though he doesn't even attempt to disguise his Saudi accent."

"So this clown's about as Palestinian as Shemp Howard," Hellboy muttered.

"Right," confirmed Manning. "As far as we can tell, he's never even set foot in any part of Palestine, unless you count Jordan, which by the way you should. At one point he was very active in the Black September group until the 1971 expulsion. He surfaced again in Damascus in 1975 very close to Hafez Assad's inner circle; word has it that he was instrumental in planning the Lebanon takeover, but we can't document that. Within a year, though, he must have done something to spoil his Syrian honeymoon. He got out just ahead of the secret police detachment sent to pick him up, and showed up next in Marseille running a white-slavery operation under the alias Abdullah Siddiq.

"It was in France that he began connecting with local chapters of the Muslim Brotherhood. Under their influence, he eventually abandoned the secular pan-Arab nationalism that had been the great cause and returned to the Wahhabi Islam of his youth – but with a difference. We think he came in contact with certain esoteric European circles, because during this time, he was diverting most of his resources to the collection and study of ancient supernatural texts in three different languages: Arabic, English, and French. I don't need to point out that the corpus of occult writings is huge in each of these."

Bonasera and Taylor exchanged a glance. "Actually, you do," she confessed.

"Okay, I can understand that. But to continue: After thirteen years in France, al-Ghul, alias Siddiq, had accumulated quite a library and a great deal of expertise, often by unsavory means – "

"Which comes as no surprise," was Danny's observation.

"No, definitely not. And the Iran-Iraq war provided his next opportunity. Apparently both sides tried to recruit him early on because of his growing reputation as an effective sorcerer. But he was too shrewd to throw in his lot with either side until the war was safely over. At that point he accepted Saddam Hussein's offer and went to Iraq in 1989; rumor has it that he was responsible for foiling the officers' coup attempt later that year."

"I have a question." It was Malone. "Any idea why he picked Iraq over Iran? Saddam Hussein failed to achieve any of his objectives, although one could say both sides lost."

"We're not entirely sure why," Manning confessed. "One of our Mideast analysts had a theory that al-Ghul shares the long-standing Arab contempt for the so-called converted peoples, especially the Persians, but I think it's better explained by the events of August 1990."

Taylor nodded slowly. "You mean the invasion of Kuwait."

"Exactly. You'll recall that one of the first systematic operations after the capture of Kuwait City was the emptying of the Kuwait National Museum by Iraqi troops and the shipment of the collection to Baghdad. The monetary and symbolic value of seizing Kuwait's treasures was obvious…but what was less obvious was the value of one item in particular. And this is where I yield the floor to Agent Sapien." Manning made a nod that was almost a nervous bow toward the piscine, who returned the gesture more calmly and rose to his webbed feet.

"Thank you, Dr. Manning." Sapien gestured to John; on the screen flashed the image of a book, its closed cover of ebony wood and crimson leather resting on white velvet in a glass museum case. "This is the item in question. A special detachment of Saddam Hussein's best troops were under orders to bring this to Baghdad and place it directly into the hands of Jibril Khalid al-Ghul and no one else; even though Uday Hussein was said to covet the book, his father overruled him."

Sam looked skeptical. "Must be some book."

"Indeed. This is believed to be the only surviving manuscript copy of the complete original text of _Al-Azif_." The huge, bright black eyes made the circuit of seven uncomprehending faces. "Some of you might have heard of it by the title of its Latin translation: the _Necronomicon_."

Recognition lit up only one face – Don Flack's – and that recognition was tinged with fear. "No way! That's just a legend!"

The smoothed-domed, gill-edged head shook sadly. "I only wish it were, Detective Flack. Unfortunately, it is all too real. In the wrong hands, it is beyond dangerous – and I fear any hands at all are the wrong hands."

There were quiet snorts and rolled eyes around the table. "So what's another banned book?" Bonasera said dismissively.

"We're not talking about _Lady Chatterley's Lover_, Detective Bonasera – which is greatly overrated, if you ask me." Sapien turned to look at the image himself. "To give you an idea, the book is displayed and photographed closed for the protection of anyone looking at it. We are speaking here of the most forbidden and esoteric of all forbidden esoteric texts, whose author, or rather stenographer, plunged into the most profound and incurable insanity shortly after beginning his efforts. It didn't even slow him down.

"And while we're on the subject of not slowing down, al-Ghul had exclusive access to this book for over ten years, during which he devoted himself to mastery of its contents when not attending to the service of Saddam. His little idyll came to an end just before his master's. On March 18, 2003, al-Ghul eluded his own security detail – remember, Saddam trusted nobody – and fled the country."

"Right before we attacked," Malone observed. "Let me guess: He came here."

"Yes, he did, Agent Malone, and very much in spite of being on every terrorism watch list in the civilized world. He found himself a pleasant and quiet little niche in New Jersey right under our noses, and began attending the El-Tawheed Islamic Center in Jersey City."

Johnson narrowed her eyes. "Isn't that the mosque whose last imam was convicted of fund-raising for terrorist organizations?"

"The very one. It proved a congenial spot for al-Ghul. We do think, however, that he limited his recruiting to a very small, hand-picked group, in the manner of Black September, whose lessons he learned quite well."

"Did he create any other cells in the area?" Flack asked, his eyes cold and narrow, his voice a growl. "He wouldn't have had any trouble. Back home in Yonkers, there was dancing in the street at the corner of St. Andrew's Place and South Broadway on 9/11 until the cops showed up."

"I wish I'd showed up," Hellboy growled back.

"We know of no other cells, only the Jersey City one."

"Interesting. Now will someone please explain to me why this al-Ghul and his little friends weren't rounded up two years ago?" Danny's voice had cooled to zero.

Agent John Myers had been so quiet as to be almost forgotten, but he answered this one. "Because they hadn't actually done anything yet. To tell the truth, it wasn't until this week that we were even aware of al-Ghul's presence in the US at all. What you're hearing now is the result of some code-blue research."

"So are we just sloppy, or is this guy really good at hiding?" Danny asked, no warmer.

"A combination of the two," John confessed. "And as I mentioned, they didn't make their move until this week – with the connivance of two more recruits." Without being asked, he put up another image, one all were familiar with. Sapien waited quietly for his colleague to make his contribution. "Alexa Duhaine, of the Metropolitan Museum of Art's department of European painting and sculpture. We have no idea what motivated her to help a jihadist cell rob her own institution…but it could have something to do with this man."

The next image arrived onscreen. It showed a lean, fox-faced man dressed in leather, with long hair of a particularly greasy shade of black. Danny Taylor and Don Flack both almost growled when they saw it. "That's the creep who set us up!" Danny announced.

"Yes, we know," replied Sapien, taking over from the human agent. "Derek Shaftoe, long over his fifteen minutes of fame as lead singer of Black Tide. We have good reason to believe that he is bankrolling the U.S. cell – al-Ghul had to leave almost all his assets behind when he fled Iraq – and providing them with a center of operations. What we wish we knew is why." He looked hopefully at them. "Any suggestions would be quite welcome."

"Let's consider what this charmer became famous for," Taylor said. "A stage show that reportedly disgusted Ozzy Osbourne, a sound that made Metallica seem gentle, and lyrics that could have left Pol Pot hiding under his bed. Maybe this is just a case of adolescent nihilism finding its logical conclusion."

"You mean helping the enemy?" John probed.

"I mean destruction for its own sake."

Hellboy linked and flexed his fingers and gave his upper body a good stretch. "Sounds about right to me."

Dr. Manning nodded. "It's plausible."

"It is," Sapien agreed. "Whatever his motivation, Shaftoe has placed his considerable material resources at al-Ghul's disposal. More worrisome, however, are al-Ghul's own, less material resources. His occult studies have left him with a remarkable range of skills. At the very least, he has complete mastery of at least one technique of arcane surveillance, which is how he was able to identify his pursuers, monitor you and stay ahead of your investigations."

"And abduct Agent Fitzgerald?" Malone's tone was dark.

"Ah! That brings us to the heart of the matter: al-Ghul's motives, his goals, and the means of achieving them. As they say, let's cut to the chase. Next, please, John."

The new image was one familiar to them all: the inscribed sword stolen from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. "I have tried to remain unfamiliar with the original text of _Al-Azif_ in order to avoid the accompanying risks, but have obtained some small second-hand knowledge of its contents. One of its more obscure chapters describes the forging of a sword with considerable mystical powers. We now believe that the artisans of Suleyman the First worked from the text to create this item. Hence al-Ghul's interest in it, and his use of Miss Duhaine to help him take possession of it. It seems a certainty that he intends to put it to far more extensive use than ever before – indeed, already has put it to some use. May we have the next slide, please?"

The gruesome image of an autopsy photo popped onto the screen. "How did you get – oh, never mind," Detective Taylor almost asked. The murdered museum guard James Abbott was shown from waist to neck, his cloven heart clearly visible.

"Allow me to solve your forensic mystery, Detectives, Agents," Sapien continued grimly. "Behold the awesome capacity of this sword to strike from a distance, unimpeded by any obstacle, guided by the will of the sorcerer who has learned its secrets."

Bonasera stared, considering the terrifying possibilities. "So you're saying that al-Ghul had broken into the case and taken the sword when James Abbott came into the gallery…and al-Ghul used the sword to kill him _from twelve feet away_?"

"That is precisely what I am saying, Detective Bonasera."

"We're in trouble," Danny grunted.

Across from him, Manning nodded grimly. "More so than you think. Please continue, Abe."

The piscine made his own nod. "All things considered, ladies and gentlemen, this weapon's physical striking power is the least of the threats it poses. Of far greater concern, and probably the real reason for its creation, is its potential use for cleaving something other than mere flesh." He turned his soft midnight gaze on Hellboy and each of the humans in turn. "When activated with the proper spells and rituals, this blade has the power to cut through the barriers between different levels or aspects of reality."

Seven uncomprehending stares fixed Sapien. Samantha Spade spoke for all of them. "What in the name of J. Edgar Hoover are you talking about?"

Unexpectedly, Sapien sighed. "With your permission, Dr. Manning, I'd like to sit down, please." He did so without needing an answer. "Tedious as it might be, I must remind the company of the words of Hamlet to Horatio. Through the use of _Al-Azif_ and other justifiably forbidden texts, al-Ghul has learned a great deal about things undreamed of in your philosophy. How to contact them…and how to control them." Again he looked around at all their faces. No one was smiling. "There is this fertile and congenial world we live in and love…and below it, in a metaphorical fashion, is another. It has also been called the Left Side, or the Shells, or the Shadow. The divide between the two is normally impermeable – most fortunately for us, as the Left Side, in its own way, is also inhabited."

"By what?" Flack asked bluntly.

"It is difficult to say. The normal terms in which we think about life, even existence itself, simply don't apply. Not to mention that it is extremely dangerous even to research these matters. One way I can try to describe the quasi-lifeforms of the Left Side is to say that, in our terms, they can exist in a state of quantum flux."

"Which makes no sense above a subatomic level," said Taylor flatly.

"Precisely. In terms of what we consider existence, it makes no sense at all. Which is part of what makes these matters so dangerous. The very indefinability of quantum states in the absence of direct observation – neither matter nor energy, neither in one location nor the other, neither A nor not-A – would render such a presence practically unstoppable by any normal physical means."

"What means would stop it?" asked Johnson, all practicality.

Hellboy snorted. "I can think of a few I'd like to try."

"I doubt any of them would work as you would hope," Sapien replied to his scarlet colleague. "There have been incidents of such entities released or summoned into this world, described in certain esoteric texts. Most agree that the only effective means of defeating them is to return them to the Left Side whence they came, preferably by a reversal of the process of their release. The actual destruction of such a being in the context of our world, though, would require nothing less than a physical manifestation of the Primordial Will."

Danny observed, "Then we'll have to come up with one, won't we?"

Sapien shook his head. "As the young people have it, dream on, Agent Taylor. I speak of the Primordial Will, which by its very nature cannot be subject to outside control or manipulation of any kind. The Primordial Will manifests only when and where it will. Of course, one can make a case that on one level, said manifestation consists of all times and places, ever since the anagrammatic transformation of _ain_, that is to say 'nothing,' to _ani_, 'I,' in the simultaneous initial and ultimate expression of the Primordial Will revealing itself…" He trailed off as he noticed their blank looks. "It's much clearer in the original Aramaic," he finished lamely.

"No, it isn't, " declared Flack.

Sapien raised and dropped his webbed hands in a helpless gesture. "We all do what we can. At any rate, there have been incursions from the Left Side in the past, but never consisting of more than one entity at a time. The unusual physical evidence collected from the scene of Agent Fitzgerald's disappearance indicates that al-Ghul has already released at least two of them."

"What you're saying is," Sam probed, "that the NYPD crime lab is holding physical traces of _aliens_?"

"These entities are nothing so simple or compatible as creatures from another planet, with which we would share a common physical and metaphysical nature. These are alien in a far deeper sense."

With lowered eyes, Mac Taylor considered carefully before commenting. "This quantum flux state you mentioned…the implication is that these entities took Agent Fitzgerald and Derek Shaftoe into this state, and that's how they vanished."

"Exactly."

At this, a wave of consternation broke over the Missing Persons unit. "Wait a minute!" Sam cried. "If Martin is now in this Left Side or whatever it is – "

"Oh, no, Agent Spade!" Sapien sat up sharply and raised a hand toward her. "Nothing of the kind. The two of them were merely transported somewhere else within our standard reality. In fact, they may be fairly close by. Find them, and we surely find al-Ghul…which we must do as quickly as possible before he completes his ultimate design." The piscine paused, and gulped wetly. "We fear that al-Ghul's intention is to use the sword to open a large and permanent breach between that reality and this."

"There's one thing that I don't understand," said Malone. "Actually, there are a lot of things that I don't understand here, but one I'd particularly like to ask about. It all sounds very sinister, but you've said nothing specific about what kind of threat these Left Side things pose beyond an ability to teleport."

Unexpectedly, it was Manning who answered him, in a deep and distant voice speaking out of memory: "On the horizon, the peaks assembled; / And as I looked/ The march of the mountains began. / As they marched, they sang/ 'Ay! We come! We come!'"

There was silence. The visitors exchanged uneasy glances; Hellboy leaned back with folded arms and narrowed eyes; Sapien lowered his head into his hands. Only John Myers shrugged and looked undisturbed. "Whatever that's supposed to mean," he mumbled.

The brief look Manning shot him was irked, but tolerant. "We've already been over al-Ghul's involvement with the Muslim Brotherhood and his return to radical Islam. It appears as if he has been cultivating occult knowledge toward the goal of using it in furtherance of the international _jihad_ against the West, and the United States in particular." He paused as if reaching for the right words – or as if calling up the courage to utter them. "There could be few faster ways of reducing our society to blood-drenched chaos than breaching the division in realities that Agent Sapien just did his best to explain."

"You've got to be kidding," Malone declared. "Either that or trying to scare us."

"He _is_ trying to scare you. For a very good reason." Hellboy rose from his chair and leaned heavily on his fists, his mighty figure shadowing the table. "Our neighbors from the Shadow are pretty much incompatible with the world as it is now…and the only use they've got for the native life-forms is as food." The stony look in the little golden eyes admitted no humor or exaggeration. "If this _jihad_ jack-off can really control them, this country will be in for a complete and very nasty makeover. _And_ his little helpers will definitely come hungry."

No one spoke. No one wanted to believe him. But no one had any basis to deny it now. It was the senior CSI who broke the breathless silence. "Tell me if I've got this straight: You say we're facing a hate-crazed jihadist who's committed just about every crime that doesn't require courage. He has sole possession and full knowledge of a text with immense destructive capabilities, he's abducted a federal agent, and he can now unleash a hellish supernatural invasion on this country thanks to a washed-up self-parody of a metalhead and some overeducated girl with less sense than God gave asparagus."

Sapien sighed wetly and slumped back in his seat. "I could not have put it more accurately and succinctly myself, Detective Taylor."

Taylor next addressed the BPRD director. "I hope you have some kind of plan in mind, Dr. Manning, because nothing in our experience was preparation for this."

And unexpectedly, Manning almost smiled. "I wouldn't put it so strongly. For us as for you, the first step is to go to the crime scene and follow wherever the evidence may lead…"

TO BE CONTINUED


	8. Chapter 8

This chapter is submitted with abject apologies for the long delay, and hopes that you patient readers haven't given up on me yet!

Chapter 8

There was a brief, unexpected silence in the cellar-prison. Martin got the odd impression that his captor was unsure of what to say next. The awkward moment did pass, though, and the old man said, in what he probably thought was a friendlier tone, "I must apologize for not being fair to you, Agent Fitzgerald. If that foul-tempered sow had not distracted me with her idolatrous scribbling, I would have made my proposal when you first awakened."

"What kind of proposal?" He thought a moment of adding, _We can't marry in this state_, but quickly realized that it wasn't the kind of joke that would be appreciated.

With a slightly forced smile, the Arab replied, "As it is written in the Holy Qu'ran, 'O unbelievers! if you prayed for victory and judgment, now has the judgment come to you: if you desist, it will be best for you: if you return, so shall we. Not the least good will your forces be to you even if they were multiplied: for verily Allah is with those who believe!' Do you understand?"

"I understand that you have me where you want me."

He sighed and rolled his deep-set eyes. "I see that you misunderstand after all. I do not necessarily want you helpless and chained at my feet. I would prefer to have you standing nobly at my side. 'Truly Allah loves those who fight in his cause in battle array, as if they were a solid cemented structure.'"

As he realized what was being offered, Martin could not suppress all his indignation. "I am not a solid cemented structure or a traitor to my country. You might as well cut my head off now and send the tape to Al-Jazeera."

Anger flashed across the bearded face, but only for a moment. He forced the smile again, a bit wider now. "Let us try to be civilized with each other. I should introduce myself: my name is Jibril Khalid al-Ghul. You might have heard of me – especially if you have scrutinized your FBI watch lists." He pushed out a chuckle, which his prisoner did not echo. "There is much about me, though, that your FBI does not even suspect. Thanks to this book," he raised it, "and this sword," he tapped its hilt, "I have the means to strike the final blow of _jihad_ against the Great Satan. Surely you do not want to be brought down with it."

"So you expect me to betray everything that matters to me in order to save my own skin. You really do have a low opinion of Americans, don't you?"

The sunken eyes narrowed. "In fact, I do. Your people are fat, lazy, greedy cowards, atheists and cross-worshippers and vile scheming Jews, obsessed with sex and pleasure and the noise and pornography you call entertainment. You are nothing but swine on your hind legs. Even so, I am merciful enough to offer you a chance, not to save your skin as you put it, but to ally yourself with the faithful servants of the truth."

"Thanks for thinking of me. Still not interested."

"You will be…once I share my secret." He stepped in close, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Have you ever heard of the _jinn_?" Without waiting for a reply, he rushed on. "No, of course not; you infidels think your shallow science explains everything. But we believers have always known that the _jinn_ are there above us. Watching over the believers are the good _jinn_ who believe and obey Allah and his Prophet, peace be upon him; the infidels are watched by the wicked infidel _jinn_ whom they will one day join in Hell. Only the wisest and greatest of believers have ever been able to control them. As it is written in the Holy Qu'ran, 'And before Suleyman were marshaled his hosts of _jinn_ and men and birds, and they were all kept in order and ranks.' And I, only I of all the believers in all the centuries since, now have the means to command them!" His voice was rising, growing louder and higher to a shriek of excitement. "By the knowledge in this book and the power of this royal sword, they shall come in their legions and obey…and the infidels shall be mowed down like grass!"

In spite of his dire circumstances, Martin was almost amused by the bizarre enthusiasm of his captor. "The _jinn_. Right. They're going to come and grant you three wishes when you rub the magic lamp," he declared snidely.

The answer came wrapped in mocking laughter. "Such arrogance! How very American. You have no idea how you yourself have already been in their hands."

There was a small, queasy feeling in the prisoner's gut, and he no longer felt quite so certain. "What are you talking about, in their hands?"

There was already a note of triumph in al-Ghul's voice. "Tell me, Agent Fitzgerald: How did you get here?"

"I – I was abducted by people working for you," he said, in a tone a little more wobbly than he'd planned. "Derek Shaftoe had to be one of them."

"Not exactly _people_," al-Ghul sneered. "Do you remember anything about your passage to here?"

"No," Martin confessed. "How could I? I was unconscious at the time!"

"I know. Think back, boy: What was the last thing you heard before you grew weak and fainted?"

Martin knew the words were chosen to goad him, and ignored that. "I heard… voices. One was…dry, the other moist. They only lasted a few seconds before I passed out." He had a feeling that it wouldn't be wise to go into more detail.

And al-Ghul seemed pleased. This time his smile showed teeth; he fingered the hilt of the sword and said teasingly, "Would you like to meet them? See the magnificent faces that go with those voices?"

A creeping apprehension rose in Martin, but he was not about to pass up the chance for information that would surely be crucial. "Yes. I'd like to see them."

"It is a great gift," al-Ghul assured him, all sincerity. "A gift normally given only to the most pious of believers. You will be the first infidel to look upon the glory of the kings of the _jinn_: Chaarmarouch and Taranoushi, mightiest of all. These are among the holy _jinn_ who are the first of the company of believers, as it is written in Sura 46: 'Behold, We turned toward you a company of _jinn_ listening to the Qur'an: when they stood in the presence thereof, they said, Listen in silence!' I do this only out of mercy, so that you may see with your own eyes, and believe, and be saved in this world and the next. Are you ready?"

"I'm ready." _As ready as I'll ever be_, he thought, cold crawling up his back as he remembered the sounds he'd heard – the chittering giggles, that awful sucking, those inhuman noises… He clenched his fists hard as he steeled himself.

The book was now open in al-Ghul's hands. He consulted it carefully, turning several pages before settling on one, stepped back, and began to read in a loud, confident tone. The sibilant, elegant Arabic sounded exactly like the summons it had to be. Martin waited, tense and anticipating, as the air slowly began shifting around him.

Things seemed to be going out of focus – not as if outlines were fogging or blurring, but more as if their angles were changing, as if the light around him were refracting, images bending and going off kilter, displaced as if viewed through water. Martin closed his eyes against the distortion, and felt his heart begin to speed up as those briefly heard but all-too-familiar voices besieged him again.

They started very softly and steadily rose: first the dry, chitinous giggles, followed by the damp snorting and sucking…The skin-crawling sounds were rotating around his head as before, and now were resolving into words, or something like words.

Scratching, dessicated: HE WANTS TO SEE. HE WOULD LOOK UPON US.

Slurping, muddy: **He would see, and believe, and be saved. **

The captive agent was squeezing his hands around his chains, white-knuckled, blood pounding with fear of the unknown – and desperate desire that it remain that way. But no chance of that; he _had_ to see, to know what had taken him, what al-Ghul had killed for and what now menaced his country. Martin opened his eyes.

They loomed above and before him, each far too big to fit in the low basement room, but both somehow _there_, immense, moving, beyond hideous. To the left he saw a throbbing mass, covered with waving fur or some kind of cilia the color of swamp mud, its wet sounds and snorts coming from the dozens of dripping orifices – drooling mouths and running nostrils – gaping at random and running fluid in gooey streams over its bulk. **Behold the great Taranoushi!**

At the right quivered a gigantic spiky bundle of insect parts: many-jointed hairy thin legs, segmented antennae, eyestalks sprouting faceted lumps of eye, stingers and clicking mandibles. Martin realized sickly that its voice resolved from the sounds of many of the skinny leg-like parts rubbing across each other. BEHOLD THE MIGHTY CHAARMAROUCH!

Martin could not make a sound, not even the scream that was called for. For a moment he was paralyzed; the unearthly entities were still as well. Then inch by inch, they slowly advanced on him. Now the scream ripped out as he scrabbled his feet against the floor, as if he could push himself to safety through the concrete wall at his back, and again he locked his eyes against the horror. Now no words were forming from the scraping and bubbling noises, just a tone of horrid amusement. The things were laughing, toying with him; he knew it, but could do nothing to resist it.

Finally, after the longest minute of his life, the alien laughters died away, and the terrible presences were gone. Martin sighed as if taking his first or last breath, letting every muscle go limp and reluctantly opening his eyes once more. Again, it was only him and al-Ghul in the room. The sorcerer was standing above him, and to the captive's astonishment, he was fairly trembling with excitement. "So you have seen them at last! Tell me, are they not magnificent? Have you ever seen such grandeur? Surely you now would be proud to ally yourself with such awe-inspiring beings!"

"Are you _nuts_? If there's anything more hideous, more terrible…" Martin regretted the words as soon as he'd spoken them.

But al-Ghul seemed only bewildered and disappointed. "Did you not see how beautiful they are? The bodies of giant athletes at the peak of perfection, the peaceful faces of saints, the voices of angels reciting the precious words of the Holy Qu'ran? You did not see or hear them?" Knowing not to go into detail, Martin only shook his head; his captor sighed in response. "It was an utter waste. Obviously an unbeliever like you cannot see with the eyes of faith. You deserve our pity, but not our mercy." With that he swept out the door; Martin could hear him calling up the stairs for Ghani to return.

The Pakistani was back in the cellar presently, resuming his guard post. He settled himself back on the stool without a word, but something was different this time. Martin noticed uncomfortably that Ghani was gazing at him with something like admiration, indeed very close to wonder. Eventually the guard summoned up the nerve to speak. "You have seen the _jinn_."

"Yes."

Martin's tone had been notably unenthusiastic, and Ghani could not help but pick up on the shudder that ran through the captive. But he pressed on. "I have not been permitted to see them. Abdelaziz in particular teases me about it; he says that someday if I work and pray hard enough, I might wake up one morning and not be Baluchi anymore." Bitterness suddenly flashed across his face. "But the _malik_ showed them to you, and you are not even a Muslim!"

Martin sighed. "Trust me on this one, Mr. Ghani: It wasn't exactly a reward for good behavior."

"Tell me, Agent Fitzgerald: What are they like? The others' descriptions are all a little different from each other. What did _you_ see?"

"You really want to know?"

Ghani was leaning forward on the stool, innocently eager. "At this point I would give my front teeth to see them myself. Yes, I _do_ really want to know!"

The memory made Martin shudder harder. "Oh God, I don't know what to tell you…the foulest, most horrible things…they – they're indescribable. If I were you I'd feel lucky!"

"Foul? Horrible?" Ghani's jaw dangled. "But…what Samir says…that they are more beautiful than any women or boys could be…that he had to close his eyes to keep from crying at the sight…"

"I wanted to cry at the sight of them, too," Martin muttered. "You did say everyone describes them differently."

"But – but everyone else says they are beautiful, glorious, so magnificent that they could be the angels of Allah!"

"Listen to me." Martin's voice was low, but hard and emphatic. "I know that to the lot of you, I'm just an ignorant infidel or worse, and I'm only going to be killed anyway. But if I know anything, I know this more surely than I know my own name: The things I saw were not of God."

Ghani stared at him with bewilderment; Martin thought he also noticed a touch of apprehension. "Not of God…" He drifted into silence, now ignoring the prisoner and rocking back and forth on his stool, deep in thought as he reflected on what he'd heard. Nothing more passed between the two men for a long time.

It was about an hour later that Martin realized that his guard seemed to have dozed off, head flopped onto his chest. He wasn't surprised; Ghani had already impressed him as a man accustomed to long hours and interrupted sleep, much like himself. Maybe he'd be lucky enough to drift off too, and get to spend a couple of hours in a nightmare from which he could eventually awaken. At least it was quiet in the cellar prison. Martin closed his eyes, tried to shift position to relieve the tension on his shackled wrists and elevated arms, and did his best to relax.

It didn't stay that quiet for very long. A dry, rasping rhythm started up. _Ghani's snoring; damn, he's loud…_ it was disturbing, rather more so than a snore should be. But when the crackling, dusty noise began resolving into words, Martin realized to his horror that it wasn't Ghani snoring, or anything human at all.

YOU TREMBLE, observed the voice of the thing called Chaarmarouch. YOU ARE AFRAID. GOOD.

Somehow he was able to respond, his voice as small and thin as it could get and still be audible. "Why 'good'? Do I amuse you?"

OF COURSE. YOU CAN SEE AND HEAR US AS WE ARE.

"The others, al-Ghul – you're beautiful to them, and recite the Qu'ran."

THEY SEE AND HEAR WHAT THEY WANT TO SEE AND HEAR. THEY WILL KNOW BETTER IN TIME – ONCE THE WALL IS BREACHED.

"Please," Martin gasped in a whisper, "what do you want?"

The thin, dry rasp was laughter. WANT? WE DO NOT DESIRE. WE DEMAND. AND WE TAKE.

Martin felt _something_, something cold as death and sharp as despair, crawling across his face; he squirmed away, hugging the wall, his cry of horror and revulsion coming out as a shriveled, choking gasp. The dusty scrape of amusement sounded again: WE ARE RESTRAINED. WE ARE BORED. WE ARE HUNGRY.

Another voice joined Chaarmarouch, wet and sucking, dripping with malice: **And we are coming.**

"You come when al-Ghul summons you," Martin observed softly. "You obey him."

Together now the unnatural voices rasped and bubbled in derision. **The sorcerer is a fool and a master over fools. **

IT IS HE WHO SERVES US. HE KNOWS IT NOT.

**But he shall learn soon enough. **

"What? But he controls you with the book and sword!" Martin had no idea where he found the resolve to converse with the terrible voices, especially now that he had seen the visible forms of the entities that owned them. Far easier to curl up and whimper until they mercifully went away…but he had to learn more.

**True,** gurgled the other, Taranoushi. **But only a little true. **

WITH THE SWORD HE CAN COMMAND. BUT ONLY ONE AT A TIME.

**And soon, the fool will breach the wall. We will come in our myriads to conquer. To feed. **

LET THE SORCERER FOOL RAISE HIS SWORD AND COMMAND US THEN…ONE AT A TIME.

Toxic pleasure sloshed in Taranoushi's voice. **He knows we will feed and sport in this land. But he knows not that we move on to others – to his land. **

LET HIM TRY TO STOP US THEN…ONE AT A TIME. LET HIM TRY TO COMMAND WHEN THIS WORLD IS OURS AND OURS ALONE.

Rustling and gargling their pleasure, the sounds faded, withdrawing. They left alone the sleeping, unsuspecting Iftikhar Ghani, fortunate enough to hear and see nothing of them, and Martin Fitzgerald, white and trembling, incapable even of prayer. The trap al-Ghul had set for the hated West would ultimately spring on all mankind…and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

TO BE CONTINUED


	9. Chapter 9

CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

Chapter 9

The first step in the new combined investigation, all had agreed, was to return to the crime scene. The Missing Persons and Crime Scene units followed in their own cars closely behind the heavily shielded BPRD van. Fortunately the Metropolitan Museum had already closed for the evening, and the Arms and Armor galleries had been kept off-limits to the public since the robbery and murder. It was easier than expected for Dr. Manning to bring his two primary investigators into the area without being seen. The museum staff had been more than cooperative with his request for strict privacy during the investigation once he had mentioned the "potentially extremely hazardous materials" they planned to use for analysis of the site.

Agent Johnson had been dispatched to the apartments of the vanished Derek Shaftoe and Agent Martin Fitzgerald to recover items to be used in the process of psychometric reading Manning had described. The others, three federal agents and three NYPD detectives, were with Manning and his oddly assorted team in the dark galleries. The search was to begin at the violated case and the outline marking the victim's fall.

Abe Sapien was the point man on the search. He started at the case, placing flippered hands in and around the hole in the glass, his deep eyes lost in concentration and seemingly blind to immediate surroundings. Sam leaned over to John and whispered, "What's he doing?"

"Feeling for vibrations," John explained. "This is how he can re-create a scene. And if al-Ghul, or whoever he sent, left a strong enough trace, we can track him down."

After thoroughly pawing the sword case all over, Sapien stepped gingerly over to the body outline and suddenly dropped to all fours, his face barely an inch from the floor, as if scrutinizing its woodwork. "So what is this guy?" Detective Don Flack muttered. "Half fish, or half dog?"

The piscine's head snapped up; his onyx eyes looked right at Flack. "Very interesting that you should put it that way, Detective," Sapien said mildly. "In both modern and biblical Hebrew, the word for 'fish' is, in fact, 'dog,' which is merely an interesting coincidence…"

A once-horned red head atop massive shoulders loomed over the blue mutant. "Yeah, it's interesting, Abe, but don't let Detective Elvis here knock you off your game, OK?" Hellboy shot an intimidating glare at Flack.

"Sorry, Red," said Sapien as he returned his concentration to the floor.

"Sorry here, too," Flack echoed, quietly and almost too sincerely.

Within two minutes Sapien had completed his eccentric appraisal of the crime scene. He stood up and declared, "It appears that our initial reconstruction of the event was largely correct. It was al-Ghul who breached the case. He had already removed the sword when the guard entered the gallery from the direction of the American Wing. The unfortunate fellow had not even seen the intruder when al-Ghul cut him down at a distance of almost four meters."

"Great. Got it," Danny replied skeptically. "Now where do we go from here?"

That seemed to deflate the other a little. He shrugged helplessly. "Unfortunately, we have almost nothing left here that the thief touched. He took the cut section of glass with him, and the sword, of course. His brief contact with the remaining glass of the case was nowhere near enough to leave a trace strong enough to connect with his present whereabouts."

That gave Jack Malone an idea. "How about the floor itself? He had to be in contact with the spot beside the case long enough to cut his way in."

Sapien sighed. "It doesn't work that way, Agent Malone. I'm afraid that shoes act as effective insulators. Unmediated contact is necessary. What was that, Detective Bonasera?"

"Nothing; I just said 'Crap,' that's all."

"Couldn't have put it better myself." The scarlet giant folded his arms. "Like the kid said before, Abe, where do we go from here?"

His blue colleague shrugged again. "We'll need more evidence. With your permission, Dr. Manning, Agent Malone, Detective Taylor," he nodded to each unit commander in turn, "I'd like to make a sweep of these galleries, to see if I can pick up anything more that might help us."

No one objected, and Sapien set out to explore the rest of the room. He moved rapidly yet precisely, bent over in a half-crouch that neither Flack nor Danny dared say reminded them of Groucho Marx. It was not long before he had made his way through all the Arms and Armor galleries on one side of the great central court. "Anything yet, Abe?" John Myers asked almost timidly.

Sapien straightened up and cast a last look around at the roomful of samurai swords and armor where he had ended up. "Not exactly, John…but I think I'm picking something up in this direction." He quickly turned and hurried toward the central area, passing between wall cases of samurai helmet masks and ornamental arrowheads without a glance.

The group found themselves almost at the rear of the section, behind the immense Ionic columns that separated the Equestrian Court from the small displays of weapons of the American Revolution. Hellboy glanced downcourt between the columns. "Sometimes you look into the distance and you see mostly horses' asses."

Some of the humans took his cue and looked towards the central displays of mounted knights, all with their backs to the investigators, but Sapien did not. Indeed, it seemed as if the piscine had not even heard him; the big black eyes had swung towards several cases of brightly polished sabres. Within a few seconds, his gaze focused on one in particular: a tall glass box isolating a single fine example, with keen blade and silver-and-ivory hilt.

Sapien hurried to the case, clamping his claws to either side of it as if eager to give it a hug. The sword seemed to fill his field of vision. "This," he breathed, his normally calm voice hushed with banked excitement. "We've got to have this." He turned to Manning, his eyes pleading. "Talk to the curators, the Director, the Mayor, whatever it takes, sir! We must bring this piece with us!"

Hellboy turned from the rear view of the knights on display. "Why don't you tell us what the hell it is first?" he rumbled.

The finned hands withdrew; Sapien took a short step back. "I – I don't know. But it's essential!"

Bonasera was the first to do the obvious: read the wall caption. "Sabre, American, circa 1780…" She went silent for a moment, then resumed. "Guys…this is the presentation sword of George Washington."

"You have got to be kidding." Malone swept in beside her to read the mounted text and instantly take back his statement. "You're not kidding."

"Please, Dr. Manning," Sapien repeated, "we have to bring it with us."

"Now _you're_ kidding," Manning replied to his psychic agent. "Have you any idea what kind of rigmarole they'll put us through if we requisition anything in this collection?"

"In that case," his huge red agent said crisply, "we'd better take the direct approach." With that, he gave Sapien a gentle nudge out of the way, swaggered up to the case and locked a hand on either side.

Manning turned chalk white. "Oh no, no, no…he's not going to – listen Hellboy, you can't do that!"

A deep breath, a long grunt, and the sound of glass breaking free from the floor-level wooden case frame. "Sorry, Manning. Already have." Gently the giant raised the almost-intact glass box above the sword it had protected, then placed it on the floor. As all the humans stared incredulously, he announced, "Time to give this sucker a try!" First he reached for the sabre with his right hand, then quickly switched for the left once he realized the hilt was too small for the stone limb.

As he took up the weapon, raising it from the metal armature that had held it up, a wide grin glowed on Hellboy's face. "Looks like you called it, Abe! I don't know what it is, but this thing's got some serious mojo to it." He stepped away from the group to try a practice swing, then another. "Man, it just lifts the hair on your neck. I feel like I could join the Three Musketeers!"

"It's the wrong blade pattern for the period…" Sapien began.

"But the right one for right now!" The scarlet agent flourished the sword again.

Once sure that his subordinate was no longer swinging the blade wide and high, Manning approached carefully, a hand extended. "Give it to me."

Hellboy turned to him resentfully, pulling the sabre in close as if to protect it. "Why? So you can go tattle to the nearest museum drone?"

"Not at all." He grinned. "So I can try it myself!"

Jaws dropped to left and right, none lower than Hellboy's. "Uh – did I hear you right, sir?"

"You did, Agent Hellboy." The director's hand was still reaching out in request. "The sword of George Washington – who wouldn't want to hold it?"

Golden eyes looked at the sword uncertainly, possessively…then Hellboy smartly turned the hilt around in his hand and extended it to his boss. "Sure, have a try."

"Thank you." Manning's tone was all sincerity. His fingers closed around the hilt carefully, reverently, and slowly he weighed in in his hand. "I – I feel it too!" Deliberately he lifted it toward the ceiling high above. "My God, this is amazing…'I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy'!" He paused, staring at the gleaming thing he held, then slowly lowered it and returned it hilt-first to the warrior agent. "There's power here, Agent. Use it wisely."

"No problem, boss."

The others had been watching in many shades of wonder, incredulity, and bewilderment. It was Malone who broke the spell by declaring, "Yes, but the question remains: Where is he going to use it? We still have no clues as to where our suspects and our agent are!"

And as if on cue, Vivian Johnson showed up at the grand entrance of the Equestrian Court and hurried to meet them. She held two small plastic bags in her latex-gloved hand; without fuss or ceremony she presented them to Manning.

"Thank you, Agent Johnson," he said crisply. Carefully the BPRD director broke the zippered seals and dropped the contents into Sapien's webbed and clawed fingers.

Sapien took them gingerly, one in each hand as if weighing them; again, nothing crossed his nearly expressionless face as he considered the evidence in his unique way. The others gathered around to watch.

That was when most of them finally registered exactly what Johnson had brought. In the piscine detective's right hand lay a pair of blue cotton men's briefs; his left held a black satin thong. "Oh my God," Sam intoned slowly. From behind Hellboy's great right hand came a throaty rumble everyone recognized as a giggle.

A huge grin split Danny's face as he made an exaggerated lean in toward Sapien and the evidence, and probed waggishly, "Interesting. Which are Martin's?"

"Shut up, Danny!" Sam snarled.

"Sorry." The grin stayed.

"But really, Agent Johnson." Detective Bonasera was smiling too, almost in spite of herself. "Underwear?"

Johnson didn't miss a beat. "Supposedly the longer and closer the contact with something, the stronger the psychic imprint. Right, Agent Sapien?" The mutant nodded. "So, try to do better than this."

"Good job, Viv," Malone declared. "Are you getting anything, Agent Sapien?"

Now the immense eyes had rolled up toward the ceiling, but seemed to see nothing. In a matter of seconds that felt like minutes, Sapien relaxed, his intense concentration dissipating, and his deep black gaze went to his own hands, back and forth from left to right. "Yes, I am. Unfortunately, both signals are rather less precise than I would like." He looked to Malone. "I'm sorry to have to say that my fears are confirmed. There's some sort of interference that I believe indicates that the actual location is indeed warded."

Taylor stepped in closer, skepticism set aside. "But there are signals. How close can you get?"

"Under these circumstances, Detective, not very close at all. I'm getting a northeasterly direction and a range of about fifty miles, and I'm afraid that's the best I can do. With some of the equipment back at home, though, we might be able to refine the search."

"All right, then." Hellboy had taken command. "We're going back to do just that. I'll take a little practice with this thing, see what it can do." He hefted the saber in his left hand, then addressed the humans. "There's not much the rest of you can do at this point. Might as well go home and get some sleep."

John Myers nodded in agreement. "We'll contact all of you as soon as we have something."

Cool little golden eyes turned to him. "I meant you too, Boy Scout."

"I know you did, Red."

XXXX

It was fully dark outside, and the clock in Mac Taylor's office registered long after shift's end. He and Bonasera still lingered after returning from the Metropolitan Museum, but were not planning to linger further. "Quite a day, Stella," he observed in ironic understatement.

"You might say that," she replied wryly. In her seat before his desk, she made a feline stretch and went on, "If we never have one like it again, it'll be too soon."

"Amen. I just hope that Agent Sapien learns enough to track down those maniacs." He smiled a little. "Actually, I wouldn't mind a chance to work with him again. Whatever else he is, he's fascinating."

Bonasera nodded, but the wryness stayed. "Fascinating, all right, and in his way very sweet…but hard to relax around. Every time he looked at me with those – those endless eyes, they seemed to be asking Walt Whitman's question: 'Who are you? And what are you secretly guilty of all your life?' Although I'm sure he didn't mean to have that effect."

Taylor's little smile stretched. "We saw a lot of outlandish things today, but nothing as impossible as Stella Bonasera without a clean conscience!"

"Oh, you'd be surprised!" she teased, grinning.

"Yes, I would," he teased back. Then he stifled a sudden yawn. "God, I'm tired. I can barely believe what we went through today…" his voice dropped, "and the worst part was having to lie to Sheldon."

She nodded sympathetically. "Maybe someday you'll be able to tell him the whole truth, but what you did tell him – that the victim was killed with a stolen experimental weapon that the FBI is trying to recover – really isn't far from it."

"I guess not," he conceded. "And at least James Abbott's body could finally be released to his family." The next yawn could not be held back.

"Oh, Mac, I've never seen you so exhausted. We'd both better go home."

"At least get out of here," he said, rubbing his temples and breathing in a rushed pant. "It got so warm in here all of a sudden…and do you hear anything strange?"

"Hear anything strange?" The criminalist peered at her partner and commander. "Like what?"

"Some kind of gurgling like you hear in old pipes." His eyes were squeezed shut, and he rubbed his temples again. "It's giving me a headache."

"I don't hear anything. Are you sure?" Bonasera turned and rose, going to the office window to raise the blind blocking the view of the lab. "Nothing seems to be going on. What do you think it is, Mac – _Mac!_" She turned back toward the desk and froze at the sight of the empty office.

Detective Don Flack had been considering whether or not to drop by the crime lab before going home. The shriek that ripped down the corridor made up his mind for him. Racing to the lab, he caught sight of Bonasera at the window of Taylor's office, staring at nothing; he burst into the office and took her into his arms to calm her. "Stella! Stella, what happened?"

"Flack – oh, God…" She gripped him hard, screams turning to sobs as she struggled to control herself, finally able to blurt out the story. He listened silently, the color draining from his face as he understood. The hissing clumps of acidic spittle and mucus on the desk corroborated her story all too well. When he'd heard it all, the detective declared, almost too calmly, "We've got to call the BPRD and get over there ASAP…and we'd better bring this." He darted behind the desk, drew a penknife and cut a patch of upholstery from the seat of Taylor's chair. "Looks like we've got another job for Agent Sapien."

Bonasera came to herself rapidly now that the challenge was shared. She snapped on gloves and snatched a glass vial to preserve the slime the invader had left behind. "Make that two, Flack. I'm bringing the physical traces of both abductions."

TO BE CONTINUED


	10. Chapter 10

CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

Chapter 10

Iftikhar Ghani was still asleep and Martin Fitzgerald miserably trying to when many feet came rattling down the stairs, and the door banged open, slamming against the concrete wall opposite. The Pakistani came awake with a shock, tumbling from his stool and yelping as he hit the floor. "Oh! You startled me – I wasn't asleep!" He grabbed for his stool and squirmed back on; quite likely he would have been in serious trouble if anyone had been paying him attention.

Martin wearily opened his eyes, not really caring what he saw – until he saw it. The whole awful crew of them had come down: al-Ghul and the three young men, plus Derek Shaftoe and the black-draped, white-faced Lexi Duhaine…but there was another. Between them al-Ghul's young trio were dragging the limp body of a man. _Dead? No, unconscious, he has to be_…Martin breathed again as they dropped their burden against the wall beside him, flung another set of handcuffs around the pipe, pulled up the unresisting wrists to be shackled. Wondering who had been captured and why, Martin listened and remained still.

"Why didn't you let me get one of the girls?" Shaftoe was grumbling. "Two of them were _fine_!"

Jibril Khalid al-Ghul shot him a look of contempt, then sighed. "I barely know where to begin. First of all, you did not 'get' anyone or anything; the honor for this operation belongs to Taranoushi alone. Secondly, women know nothing but desire and gossip; what could we learn from hens?"

From the concrete corner where she had retreated, Lexi broke in acidly, "Two of those 'hens' are FBI agents, and the other is second-in-command of the New York crime lab. Maybe it's just me, but I think they might know a few things!" Martin felt his face grow hot at the mention of the first two; however, either he succeeded in hiding it or none of the enemy noticed.

One of the young Arabs turned to her. "You're quite right: It is just you." The three and their leader chuckled among themselves before ignoring her again.

"As I was saying before we were rudely interrupted," al-Ghul continued pointedly, "your repulsive desires are of no interest here, Shaftoe. The issue we must consider is that both the FBI and the police investigating our operations were able to foil the power of the mirror of ink. Until now they have been no threat to us, but if they have been able to find their own source of spiritual power, we face our first real challenge. I must learn what they know and what they did when beyond my surveillance." He turned to the shamefaced Ghani. "Let me know when he awakens. And do try to stay awake yourself when on guard duty." All but Lexi were smiling more or less smugly as they went out, leaving behind only the two prisoners and their furiously blushing guard.

Martin turned his attention to his new companion. He'd never seen the man before, but had a good idea of what, if not who, he was; the lapel pin in the blue and gold of the NYPD detective's shield was a clear sign. And considering that the Missing Persons unit had begun to work with the NYPD's crime lab on this whole misbegotten case, chances were that this unfortunate was one of them.

The new captive's eyes fluttered open within a few minutes. Martin noticed first, but Ghani caught on not two seconds later. "Oh! You're awake!" He wobbled up to his feet, hardly less clumsily than the last time he'd gotten off the stool, and stumbled out of the basement toward the stairs, almost forgetting to lock the door behind him. As soon as he was gone, the new man took the measure of his surroundings instantly – starting with testing his fetters and finding them secure. He turned sharp blue eyes to his left. "Special Agent Martin Fitzgerald, I presume."

Martin leaned in close to the other. "We've got maybe a minute," he whispered quickly. "You were brought here because they were tracking the investigation and lost the trail. So whatever you do, don't tell me a thing, or they'll try to get it out of both of us."

"Got it," the other answered. "How were they tracking us?"

"I can't explain it. Some sort of trick with ink. Any more than I can explain the – the things that brought us here."

"That sounds about right." He even smiled. "Detective Mac Taylor, NYPD Crime Scene Unit, at your service. I can tell you that, can't I?"

Martin smiled back. "Name, rank, serial number, and date of birth."

Across the concrete room, the door clicked and began to yawn open. Taylor turned his head to watch. "That's all I'll be telling _them_."

XXXX

Dr. Tom Manning ran a slow, appraising gaze across the objects arrayed on the steel table before him: the samples from the two abduction scenes, the piece of office-chair fabric, the two pairs of men's underwear (his gaze speeded up across the last two). Meanwhile Detective Bonasera made her own appraisal of the BPRD's lab – if that was indeed what it was. It certainly was laid out and largely furnished like a crime lab, but the equipment…She suppressed the urge to think about it too hard; that way lay madness. Neither did she want to think about why the place was so poorly lit, for a lab. Detective Flack was hovering at her side, looking across the table at the impeccable Manning and the slightly disheveled John Myers in order to avoid looking at said equipment. "So these are all the traces you were able to recover?" asked the BPRD director, focusing on the sample bottles of acidic slime and the giant chitin fragments mounted in petri dishes.

"I'm afraid so," she answered. "Is this enough to improve your trace attempt, Agent Sapien?"

The piscine felt tentatively at the piece of upholstery with one claw. "I won't know until I've tried. Probably several times." He heaved a deep, damp sigh. "How I wish Professor Broome were still with us."

"You said it," grunted Hellboy from far side of the room, where he leaned against a wall as if propping it up. He scratched his ear, shifted, twirled his tail around his stony right wrist. "Damn it, isn't there anything I can do?"

"Not until we know where to look," Manning declared, perhaps a little too firmly. "There is something you can do, John: I'd like you to contact Special Agent Malone right now. He and his team won't appreciate being left out at this stage."

"I'm on it, sir."

XXXX

Just as Martin had estimated, Ghani returned with his master in less than two minutes. The three Arab youths attended al-Ghul, with Shaftoe tagging along like an afterthought. Both captives were just a little gratified to see that Lexi had been spared this session, and noticed how Ghani quietly slipped off to the farthest corner and stood watching, as if afraid or not permitted to participate directly. There was a brief, electric silence as al-Ghul rested his hands on the hilt of the sword he wore and stared hard into two sets of blue eyes in turn. They stared back just as hard and waited for him to speak.

When he did, he adressed Taylor only, and wasted no time or tenderness. "Where were you today at four o'clock? How were you able to hide from the mirror of ink?" The questions came out in a snarl.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." The answer was cool, affectless.

"Of course you do." A snicker crackled in al-Ghul's beard. "Somehow you police scientists and the FBI have found a way to counter the ancient secrets of my people. How? Have you deciphered the writings of the Comte d'Erlette? Or have you salvaged forbidden knowledge of the Great Old Ones?"

Taylor deployed his own snicker. "Now you're just making stuff up."

There were gasps and glares from his captor's entourage. One of the young men, eyes ablaze, reached into a pocket for a gun; another of them put out a hand to restrain his comrade. With eyes like molten iron, al-Ghul rumbled, "You _kufr_ think everything is made up but your overrated science. Soon, you will all wish that my secret knowledge was mere make-believe. And if you do not answer my questions, you will learn the evil fate Allah reserves for the unbelievers. For the last time: Where were you at four o'clock, and what spell hid you from my observation?"

With narrowed eyes, Taylor replied almost too calmly, "Here are the only answers you'll get from me: The NYPD doesn't practice, give credence to, or otherwise waste its time with magic. And it does not cooperate with terrorists. Now get it over with."

Frowning, al-Ghul raised a hand and made a curt gesture. The man holding the gun understood; he came forward and placed the barrel of the pistol against Taylor's temple. "I know you Americans," al-Ghul purred. "You love life, because death means the end of your eating, drinking, and whoring. Now that I have you chained at my feet, I give you one more chance to save yourself."

"You know nothing of America, and nothing of me." It was as if the gun at his head did not even register to Taylor. "Let me enlighten you. I had a wife once, who never harmed another human being in her life. One pleasant Tuesday morning she went to work…at the World Trade Center. Thanks to the likes of you and your _jihad_, the woman I loved has no grave. That is all you need to know."

"All _you_ need to know," his captor growled back, "is that if you do not tell me what I want, you will join her today in the fires of Hell."

"Fine. I'm waiting." Taylor closed his eyes, and waited.

Panic was rising in the back of Martin's mind. The handcuffs were still tight, and the pipe sound and secure. Maybe he could slide down the pipe a couple of feet, kick the gun from the Arab's hand? Not before they could stop him, not to mention that he'd accomplish nothing more than slowing them down for about a minute. Helplessness tasted hot and bitter…

"Oi! Don't do that!"

All eyes went to Derek Shaftoe, who'd elbowed his way through al-Ghul's honor guard to confront the sorcerer. "That'd be a bloody stupid waste, wouldn't it? Especially when _I_ can make the bastard talk!"

"Indeed. And how?" A sharp skepticism inflected al-Ghul's tone. "As the heroic martyrs prove day after day, a man who does not fear death is invincible."

"Oh, it's not so simple as that." Shaftoe's grin was mirthless and very unpleasant. "A quick, clean death's not such a bad thing. Especially when a man's not got much to live for anymore…that's right, Mansour, you can put away the gun now."

The youth looked lasers at him. "I'm Samir, you stupid _kufr_ son of – "

"Whatever."

With a sharp glance, al-Ghul silenced the gunman. "Be quiet, Samir. Well? Go on, Shaftoe, I am listening."

"It's not like I have to spell it out to a wise bloke like yourself, Jibril old boy. Just let me remind you that endurance – or should I say, the lack of same – can be more effective than fear. I'll take care of everything; you won't have to get a drop on those delicate magic hands of yours. You know about that special little playroom of mine…"

Stroking his beard slowly, al-Ghul intoned, "Yes, I understand. A fine idea."

"I need a little help moving the package upstairs and into position. Your boys can give me a hand. And I'd appreciate it if you could have one of your _jinn_ standing by in case the boys need a little help. That's all I'll need – well, that and a little time." The unpleasant grin grew toothier. "Probably less time than anyone expects. I hope it won't be over too fast to be fun…"

Taylor said nothing; his face was almost expressionless except for a mere glimmer in his eyes. Nearly sick with anger, Martin kept his own silence not out of fear, but from the bitter bite of the knowledge that nothing he could say would make the slightest bit of difference.

XXXX

Derek Shaftoe was flushed with anticipation as he prepared for the interrogation. He'd been looking forward to this chance for what seemed like centuries. No more performances or play-acting; this was his first shot at the real thing! He'd changed to his favorite costume: the long, tight tunic of black leather, the matching trousers that were like a second skin, and the high-heeled spurred boots that he'd worn on the farewell tour in '97; all still fit as on the day they were made for him. All his best equipment hung on the walls in precise places; Shaftoe turned off the harsh fluorescents and turned up the gas jets in their wall brackets, lighting the room with flames that sent the shadows reeling on the scarlet walls.

Everything was perfect – or should have been perfect. Something wasn't right, and Shaftoe had a suspicion as to what it was. He turned from the line of wall-mounted knives he was inspecting to shoot a glance at the prisoner. Mac Taylor had been put into position too, kneeling at dead center of the circular room, in shirtsleeves, wrists bound with leather straps to the iron ring set in the floor. But he was as silent and immobile as a statue of himself; his back was straight and his eyes never left his captor. Shaftoe was bewildered, and irritated too; the man should have been squirming like a trapped mouse, maybe even fighting to hold back tears. It just wasn't fair, and it left Shaftoe without the delicious taste of mastery he deserved. Not to mention that the criminalist's keen blue gaze seemed to have its own crosshairs.

Well, he'd fix that soon enough. It was time to begin. Shaftoe ran his tongue quickly around his lips, selected a riding crop from the supply of props on the wall, and slowly advanced on his captive, drawing out his approach to prolong the terror, sensuously caressing the shining leather of the chosen tool of discipline. "Well, here you are, Detective Taylor. Bound, helpless, completely at my mercy…and the only thing that can save you is telling me exactly what I want to know."

"Are you kidding? I wouldn't tell you if your fly was open. I've got this thing about cooperating with traitors."

Shaftoe stopped short. He was expecting a bit of half-hearted defiance, but nothing like that! There should be at least a catch in the victim's throat, or something. Suddenly he realized he was standing and staring dumbly, and quickly retook command. "You can't call me that! This isn't my goddamn country."

And infuriatingly, Taylor smiled, his eyes blue ice. "Do you really think we don't know who you are? After your little stunt in the West Village, the FBI dug into your records with a backhoe and shared everything with NYPD. They didn't find all the details, but they did learn that until 1988, you were Paul David Ericsson from Minneapolis. Born in 1967, by the way, not 1971 like it says on your CD liner notes." Taylor's voice dripped scorn. "You're about as British as Hillary Clinton, and you and your stupid accent are equally phony. But I will admit that you were completely truthful when you said this wasn't your country."

It seemed as if the pig was determined to ruin the whole thing. Still, the real fun hadn't started yet. Just wait until the blood began to flow – _his _blood – and then he'd show his true colors – canary yellow, like all of them. Shaftoe ran the riding crop through his fingers, purring, "Now your country is reduced to this little room – which I rule. I will make it a cauldron of pain…and you will pray for death."

He got his answer: a snicker, cold and edged with contempt. "Aren't you embarrassed by this?"

Astonishment flashed in Shaftoe's eyes, momentarily blasting away all the triumph and amusement, but again he reasserted control over himself and the scenario. He gave an icy chuckle of his own. "Brave words from a man on his knees!"

Taylor looked up at him coolly. "You didn't put me here. That took three men with guns backed up by invisible monsters, remember? If it were just you and me, I could take you in my sleep. Want to try it?"

Shaftoe bristled. "Still trying to play the tough cop, with the badge and the gun. But I took that badge and gun. I took everything from you: your freedom, your dignity, your hope…" he stood above Taylor and touched the leather quirt to the captive's face, slowly drawing it down and across his throat; "and if I want, I can take your life."

And Taylor only laughed at him again. "You think I'm afraid of your costume and props and silly script? You wouldn't have made a light snack for my old drill instructor. And every Marine in my Gulf unit back in '91 would be laughing himself silly at this performance."

Shaftoe's cheeks blazed; quickly he snatched the riding crop away from Taylor's neck and waved it furiously. "Marine? So you think you're a real man because you let them stuff you in a uniform and tell you what to do? And what did you face in the Gulf back then? Saddam's Republican Guard nancy-boys, who couldn't tell one end of a gun from the other! Well, now you're facing _me_, and I'm going to teach you about fear!"

"Oh, give it a rest." Taylor sighed as if bored, and shook his head. "Who do you think you're dealing with? I'm not one of those poor hookers and hustlers you pay to come here, to tremble and plead while you act out your sick fantasies."

Shaftoe froze. "How did you know about that, you bastard!"

"Could you have made it any more pathetically obvious?" Taylor glared lightning into his captor's face. "Is that why you signed on with al-Ghul? Did he assure you that once he was caliph of the world, you'd have a steady supply of infidel slaves you could torture and debase for real, so you could finally feel alive?"

"Starting with _you!_" Shaftoe shrieked. He flung the riding crop across the room, where it banged against the wall; he ran after it and snatched up a heavier horsewhip. Cracking the lash, he ranted wildly, either not noticing or not caring that his London accent had vanished. "But that's just the gravy! The main event is going to be watching al-Ghul's things take down this whole worthless corrupt garbage-heap of a society! The steel towers will fall, the bloodsucking corporations will be gone once and for all and take all their pollution and racism and exploitation with them, and all their goddamn money will be just piles of worthless green paper at last! And it doesn't matter what kind of society replaces it – anything else has got to be better than this!"

"This is all an abstraction to you, isn't it?" Taylor observed in a cool and quiet tone. "No thought to all those who would die, and the many more who will wish they had?"

Shaftoe chuckled. "Didn't someone once say that one death is a tragedy while a million deaths are a statistic?"

"Yes. Stalin. And he was wrong; there's no such thing as 'a million deaths.' One human being dies, and another, and another – tragedies and bereavements accumulated one by one by one."

There was a brief and deadly pause. The British accent returned, and the eyes flashed daggers. "If I didn't have to question you, I'd cut off your balls and gag you with them. But I promised al-Ghul I'd make you talk, and I promise myself I'll make you beg for mercy!"

Taylor's eyes did not flicker. "Bring it on."

Shaftoe failed to keep both promises…but it was not for lack of effort.

TO BE CONTINUED


	11. Chapter 11

CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

Chapter 11

As al-Ghul's men had taken Taylor away, Ghani had stared after them for a long time, even after the door had locked again. But now he'd dropped his gaze to the floor as if deliberately avoiding Martin's eyes. "This detective is a brave man," he declared quietly.

"I noticed," the other replied at a similar volume.

"It is not to his advantage."

"And what does that mean?"

Ghani let loose another of his accustomed heavy sighs. "We have all drawn our conclusions about Mr. Shaftoe; personally, I think he is quite mad." Still looking at the floor, he didn't notice Martin's emphatic nod. "But mad or not, the man is very, very cruel. Mr. Taylor would likely be better off if he allows himself to be broken quickly, and I fear that will not be the case."

"You're probably right," the prisoner agreed miserably.

"My impression is – is," there was a catch in Ghani's voice like a choke, or a sob, "that the terrible loss he suffered has hardened him far more than Shaftoe thinks…or even the _malik_ suspects." Now he looked up at the other – and quickly dropped his gaze again. Without a word, Martin's iron expression and cold blue eyes accused: _And whose cause is responsible for that?_

There was another sob, then a few long, silent minutes. Martin bided his time, letting the other think a few unaccustomed thoughts. At length Ghani looked up into empty space and softly began to recite: "'If you wander far enough / You will come to it / And when you get there / They will give you a place to sit / For yourself only, in a nice chair / And all your friends will be there / With smiles on their faces / And they will likewise all have places…'" He finished, lapsing back into silence.

"That's not from the Qu'ran," Martin observed.

"No. It was in a book my daughter brought home from the public library. I was leafing through it to see if there was any inappropriate content; I came across that poem, and I found it comforting. I have remembered it ever since." He closed his eyes briefly. "That is how I always imagined Paradise: a place of quiet, rest, reunion, and most of all, peace."

_I'm not the one who needs comforting,_ Martin mused, thinking uneasily of the other prisoner. Aloud he said, "I don't understand, Mr. Ghani. Why would a decent family man like you want to be complicit in the deaths of millions?"

No answer. Ghani's face vanished into his hands, and his body shook with a long run of choking sounds. When the hands finally dropped away, he muttered to empty air, "There is no other way…the two are incompatible, there is no other way…" He raised his damp face and looked at Fitzgerald as if noticing him for the first time. "It is written in the Holy Qu'ran: 'O you who believe! when you meet the unbelievers in hostile array, never turn your backs to them. If any do turn his back to them on such a day – unless it be in a stratagem of war, or to retreat to a troop – he draws on himself the wrath of Allah, and his abode is Hell, an evil refuge!' I must not be weak…Allah is the Quick to Punish…" He trailed off, lost in himself; it came as a momentary relief when the door opened.

The relief lasted only until they saw who had come in. The three gunmen were dragging in the CSI, who hung limp as before, unresisting as they shackled him back beside the first captive. But this time he was awake, his back bloody and tattered from shoulders to thighs; he did not fight only from lack of strength. "My God," exclaimed Martin, "what the hell did you do to him?"

"Us? Nothing." Samir was smirking. "Just a little moving around. If you want the details, ask him." A jerk of his head indicated where Shaftoe was coming through the door behind them, accompanied by al-Ghul. He was grumbling at high speed, "I don't bloody understand it, I gave the little bastard everything I got – even salted the wounds, and he didn't tell me a bloody thing! Son of a bitch must be made of wood!"

"Wood breaks," al-Ghul reminded him in a toneless voice. "Wood burns."

That brightened up the other considerably. "Now there's an idea! I'll drag him back up to my private room, this time it'll work…"

"Shut up," the sorcerer commanded. "I have no more time to waste on your entertainment."

Shaftoe narrowed his eyes. "Oh, really? Well, O High and Mighty Wizard, must I remind you that we still don't know why your magic didn't work?"

"We shall know in a moment," al-Ghul declared confidently. "Stand aside." Ghani, trembling all over and very pale, pressed himself against the wall; another brief order in Arabic sent the young men from the cell. Once he had enough room, al-Ghul drew and brandished the inscribed sword. Approaching his prisoners, he gave a light kick to the half-alive Mac Taylor and demanded, "I will ask once more. Where were you, and what do you know?"

The tortured man's voice was low, but clear enough. "Go to hell."

A narrow, mirthless smile cut across al-Ghul's face. "So." He raised the blade again and slashed down across empty air; suddenly Martin gasped in astonishment – and pain. The FBI agent stared down at his own chest: a wide slash had opened across his shirt, blood welling up rapidly in the shallow wound beneath. He looked up aghast from the cut to the face of his captor, who raised the sword again and gave it a twist. Martin fell back against the wall, gasping again, as a single ruby bead appeared on his neck. "Well, Detective? Shall I slash his throat?"

Taylor forced himself upright, urgency in his weakened voice. "No. I'll tell you."

With a smug glance over at the seething Shaftoe, al-Ghul returned the sword to his belt. "Very good. Now then, Detective Taylor: Where did you meet the FBI Missing Persons team, and why?"

Martin was about to protest, but a glance from the criminalist silenced him. "We went down to the West Side, to the grounds of a garbage hauler called Waste Management Services. The feds had gotten a tip about another body there, dead without a mark on him like the one in the Metropolitan Museum, and also that Lexi Duhaine had been seen on the grounds. Since our cases are linked, we've been collaborating."

"Indeed. And what did you find?"

"Absolutely nothing. The body turned out to be a homeless man who'd died of natural causes in his sleep, and the woman was just an employee of the trash hauler who shared Miss Duhaine's build and coloring."

Frowning, al-Ghul pressed on. "Why was I unable to observe you while there?"

"How on earth could I tell you? I don't know anything about magic!"

Stroking his beard with his left hand, drumming on the sword hilt with his right, al-Ghul considered what he'd heard. The silence stretched into a full minute and more until the sorcerer made his decision. "I can delay no longer. I had thought to have more time to prepare…but the Night of Power must be tonight." He shot a look at Ghani, still pressing himself against the wall, who began to tremble again. "Ghani! Keep a close watch. If either of them even breathes differently, I must know at once." He gestured to Shaftoe. "Come! There is much to do." They swept out.

The prisoners exchanged a look. "You're good," Martin whispered.

"Thank you." Taylor suppressed another wince of pain and looked across at Ghani apprehensively. The guard seemed paralyzed with fear. "Although I don't know if I bought us any time."

As they watched, Ghani gradually took command of himself and came slowly away from the wall, back to his seat. He was still shaking. Martin decided to risk it. "Mr. Ghani," he asked tentatively, "what is the Night of Power?"

Ghani's voice trembled. "The Qu'ran speaks of _al-Qadr_, the Night of Power. In its most mysterious _sura_. 'And what will explain to you what the Night of Power is/ The Night of Power is better than a thousand months. / Therein come down the angels and the Spirit by the permission of their Lord, on every errand/ Peace!...This until the rise of morn!' I wish I knew what it meant."

Martin felt a chill. "So do we."

XXXX

His teammates and the NYPD detectives were clustered around Agent John Myers, who struggled to translate Abe Sapien's results into map coordinates, but Danny Taylor sat across from Hellboy, watching him clean and prepare an immense revolver obviously custom-made for his stone hand. "Quite a piece you've got there," the human federal agent observed. "Where do you get ammo for it?"

"Load it myself."

"Think it'll do for our visitors from the Left Side?"

"It should." Satisfied, Hellboy snapped the empty cylinder into position and spun it. "The Samaritan here has knocked holes through a few demons in its time."

Danny nodded. "Impressive."

"Doesn't help much if the holes close themselves up, 'course." Noticing the color draining from the other's face, Hellboy winked and added, "Just kidding. Besides, there's always Plan B."

"Which is?"

"I haven't worked out all the details yet, but let's just say I expect to do General Washington proud."

Over at a much cleaner workbench, John raised his head from the maps. "This _is_ the tightest you can come up with, right, Abe?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, John."

"Don't be," he assured his blue colleague. "You did your best. And I did my best." He held up the results.

Agent Malone and Dr. Manning moved in to read them. "Mount Kisco. Between Route 684 and the New Croton Reservoir." Malone considered. "It's a start."

Detective Flack hovered behind them. "It's a _slow_ start. It's an hour away, and that's a lot of ground to cover."

"Especially if we have to go door-to-door," Sam Spade observed grimly.

Vivian Johnson put on a smile of sorts. "Then we'd better get started, right?"

XXXX

Guard and prisoners heard the screaming and arguing louder than the approaching clatter of feet. The door was flung open and Lexi Duhaine tumbled in, tangled up in yards of black fabric, her hands tied in front of her. She was shrieking herself hoarse; as she struggled to regain her feet, Samir and Mansour were upon her, trying to pin her as she flapped like a grounded condor. Abdelaziz followed them; in his hand was a small assembly of straps and rubber that Taylor recognized from the wall of Shaftoe's "private room." It took a great deal of effort to shove it into her mouth and strap it into position around her head, but it reduced her screams to frantic, gasping grunts.

Both captives were bewildered and appalled, but before Martin could protest, he heard someone else beating him to it. "What the hell's the matter with you?" Shaftoe was shouting as he burst in right behind al-Ghul. "She's one of us!"

"I will not dignify such nonsense with an answer," al-Ghul replied placidly.

"You'd not have laid a finger on the bloody sword without her!"

"Which means that her only further usefulness to the _jihad_ is in this form. The _jinn_ require three offerings to descend on the Night of Power. I hold two _kufr_ prisoners, otherwise useless. Besides, as it is written in the Holy Qu'ran, 'It is not fitting for a Messenger that he should have prisoners of war until he has thoroughly subdued the land,' therefore it is best to eliminate them quickly. A third is necessary; speed and efficiency are of utmost importance."

"That's just an excuse. You could send your genies out to grab another cop!"

"But I have no intention of doing so."

"Bloody hell!" Shaftoe was fairly hopping up and down. "This isn't right! It shouldn't be her!"

An icicle smile gleamed in al-Ghul's face. "Are you volunteering to take her place? That would be brave, for a _kufr_."

The other went white and took a wobbly step back, to the snickers of the three men holding the bound and gagged Lexi. "I didn't say _that_…but I'm not letting you get away with it! You're on my property – and by the way, that's _my_ ball gag, Abdul or whatever your name is – and you'll do as I say, or I'll blow the lid off your whole operation right now!" Shaftoe drew himself up and even puffed out his chest before turning and heading for the cellar door and the stairs.

Now the smile turned deadly. "So, you think I summoned the _jinn_ to do the bidding of any drugged, oversexed _kufr_ who deigns to let me use his house. Now I will show you exactly why I summoned them." He whipped the blade from his belt, and everyone else froze; even Lexi ceased struggling, paralyzed by an awful anticipation.

No one else moved or spoke as al-Ghul raised the sword and hissed a brief incantation. Shaftoe stood petrified halfway out the door, a foot on the lowest step, feeling the sudden close heat of the changed atmosphere, hearing the mad chittering and slurping grow nearer, louder…

Suddenly Martin knew; he recoiled against the wall, his eyes squeezed shut. Taylor saw him and instantly followed his lead. In this way they spared themselves the sight, but there was nothing to be done about Shaftoe's sudden screams of terror and agony, the tearing and sucking, the snapping of bones and hiss of dissolving flesh that went on even after the shrieking had faded into nothingness.

It went on for far too long until an awful, empty silence prevailed. When the captives opened their eyes, they saw Iftikhar Ghani huddled in a corner with his arms around his knees; the three youths trembling wildly, holding hands in a tangle; and Lexi lying on the floor shaking like a breeze-blown black sack, very white behind the gag. The _jihadi _sorcerer himself was the only one not staring at the slimy, bubbled puddle clotted with pink gore and little splinters of bone.

"Let that be a – what do you Americans call it? – a preview," al-Ghul declared triumphantly. "My offerings of the Night of Power and the power of the _dhu'l-fakar_ will bring the legions of Allah descending in their master's cause…and they will be hungry."

"Please, _malik_, if I may have your permission – "

The voice was so low that al-Ghul almost missed it, but it did catch his attention. He rounded on Ghani. "What do you want? And speak like a man, not like a frightened old woman!"

"Forgive me, _malik_. But you have spoken of offerings making the _jinn_ descend. What – what do you mean? What kind of offerings?"

A strange light of exaltation was shining on al-Ghul's face. "Tonight we offer the sacrifices of the glorious days of old, as recorded in _Al-Azif_ and the other ancient writings. The _jinn_ demand three _kufr_ offerings on the Night of Power, to be brought before them, pierced through with the sacred blade of the _dhu'l-fakar_, and thrown into the fire, fulfilling what is written in the Holy Qu'ran: 'Such is the requital of the enemies of Allah – the Fire.' The _jinn_ will be pleased, and once I have presented the sacrifices and carved their gateway with this sacred sword, they will come in their hordes to obey me and destroy all resistance to the _jihad_, 'and there prevail justice and faith in Allah altogether and everywhere'…"

"It – it does sound impressive," Ghani said uncertainly. "But I do not understand something: Are these offerings – these sacrifices to be made _to_ the _jinn_ themselves?"

"Of course. They demand their due, and I will provide it."

Now Ghani seemed totally confused. "But to offer sacrifices to spirits – isn't that idol worship? How can idol worship be for the service of Allah?"

"It is _not_ idol worship!" His eyes had darkened dangerously. "Idols are manmade things, statues and pictures; these are the mighty _jinn_ of Allah, who accepted the sacrifices of our ancient ancestors. The Palestinians of old offered blood and lives to the holy angels Baal and Moloch."

The three young men were now whispering among themselves, and Ghani's head was shaking like a baby's rattle. "But that was the time of ignorance when men were idol worshippers and polytheists – what the Prophet, peace be upon him, came into the world to correct!"

"Do you presume to lecture _me_?" al-Ghul snarled. "You, an ignorant Baluchi who cannot even _read_ the Holy Qu'ran, dares to call my ancient Palestinian fathers idol worshippers? They were good Muslims one and all, builders of the Al-Aqsa Mosque, where their fire sacrifices to the angels brought glory and honor to Allah!"

"Fire sacrifices in the Al-Aqsa Mosque?" Ghani seemed about to cry. "But it was built in the time of Caliph Umar, on the place of the Temple of Suleyman – "

"You are a fool! Al-Aqsa was built more than a thousand years before Suleyman was born – it was all in the report from the Zayed Center in Abu Dhabi three years ago!" He snorted. "But why do I waste my time arguing with an ignoramus? Either you help me to summon the host of the _jinn_, or I feed you to Chaarmarouch and Taranoushi as I did that presumptuous _kufr_ Shaftoe; do you understand me?"

"Yes, _malik_, I do." The expression that had replaced Ghani's confusion was not so easily read.

"Very good." A fierce gaze swept everyone else in the room, and paused on the small pool of human remains. "Everyone understands. Let us begin. Samir, Abdelaziz, you must come outside and prepare the site under my direction. Mansour, get a mop and clean up this mess; then I want you to help keep an eye on the prisoners – there are three now, and they have become far more valuable. And I must add something…" There was a hard gleam in al-Ghul's sunken eyes, and he was focusing it on Lexi Duhaine's bone-pale face. "No doubt you are clinging to the promise you had me make: That my new caliphate would preserve the temples of cross worship, and the vast barns full of idolatrous junk you _kufr_ call art museums, to the limit of my ability. Now the time is right for me to explain that promise. The Holy Qu'ran and the Shari'a law forbid the preservation of idols and idol worship, and forbid the servant of Allah to disobey his law. The limit of my ability is to preserve none of it, and my duty is to destroy all I can. But I can promise that you will not be here to see the burning, shattering, and obliteration of all your precious idols." Next he looked to the men. "And you two will be fortunate enough not to have to witness the fall of your precious city and country."

TO BE CONTINUED


	12. Chapter 12

CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

Chapter 12

Once al-Ghul and the other two had left, the staring contest began at once. Ghani and the younger man, Mansour, turned on each other, eyes smoldering. "You heard the _malik_. Get a mop and clean up the mess." Mansour's tone was cool and almost threatening.

"I did hear the _malik_," Ghani snapped back. "I clearly heard him tell _you_ to do that, not me."

Mansour's eyes went to slits. "The prisoners need extra watching now. And I have the gun."

"Oh, so you have a gun. Unless you intend to use it on me, I suggest you obey orders and get the mop. The _malik_ designated me to act as guard from the first, and I did not hear him countermand his own order." Ghani put on an unaccustomed sneer. "Of course, you can use your gun and make me do your duty…and once I get upstairs, I can inform the _malik_ of your attitude toward his commands."

The other was about to reply, but thought better of it. He just stared at Ghani for a moment, then muttered, "I'll be right back."

After Mansour left to fetch the mop, Ghani stood up, pausing until the door had safely closed, then swooped over to Martin. "Who do I call?" he whispered.

With the first rush of hope he'd felt since the ordeal had begun, Martin whispered back, "Jack Malone at the FBI." Hastily he recited the number twice, then nodded as Ghani repeated it back perfectly.

Ghani returned the nod. "As soon as I can get away." He heard Taylor sigh with relief behind him, and turned. "I'm so sorry, Detective Taylor."

The criminalist smiled raggedly. "Make that call in time and you won't have to apologize for anything."

"I'd ask you what changed your mind," Martin said gently, "but I don't really need to, do I?"

"Not really," Ghani agreed with a rueful smile of his own as he slipped back onto his stool and composed himself, putting on his glowering guard face.

Only seconds later, the door clicked back open; Mansour had returned with a bucket, a mop, and an annoyed yet resigned expression. Without a word he set to sopping up the small wet slick which was all that remained of Derek Shaftoe. The three other men could not watch; Lexi Duhaine, seemingly catatonic, could not look away.

It didn't take long. Mansour wrung out the mop for the last time, picked up the bucket, and turned to leave. That was when Ghani stood and said, "I'm sorry we argued before, Mansour. Here, let me bring that back to the kitchen and dispose of it for you."

Mansour looked suspicious for a moment, then decided to smile. "Thanks, Iftikhar. Here." He handed bucket and mop to the other, then took over the stool as Ghani went upstairs. With a smirk he drew the gun, holding it casually in his lap, and waited for the other to return. Nothing he saw on the captive's faces gave him any reason to be concerned.

XXXX

Danny had to ease up a little on the throttle as he negotiated the exit and merge from Interstate 87 to the Saw Mill River Parkway; in the car behind, Don Flack was on the point of passing him. Fortunately, traffic was sparse so late at night; they were making good time – just not good enough for them. And right now, no one wanted to discuss how they could possibly narrow the search once they made it to the town.

From the back seat behind the driver, Agent Johnson asked, "Shouldn't we have called for backup, Jack?"

Malone turned in the front passenger seat to look at her. "I wish, Viv, but we can't have them getting a look at Hellboy. It's just the four of us, and the four in the car behind us."

"Sounds like decent odds to me," said Danny with a grin.

"I wish we all had your confidence," Sam muttered from behind him.

A ringtone intervened. "Malone." The team leader listened for a moment; his eyes went wide and he demanded, "Who is this?... You're with Jibril Khalid al-Ghul?... Yes, I understand…Thank you, Mr. Ghani; we're on our way."

All attention was upon him; Danny could barely keep his eyes on the road. "Jack?" Sam probed.

Malone's broad, satisfied grin lit up the car. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have an address." It seemed impossible, but the grin widened. "And Mr. al-Ghul has a turncoat in his group."

"Which equals us having a chance." Johnson's voice was too cool, as if she was forcing down a surge of excitement. But Malone wasn't responding; he was already too busy passing the word on to the next car.

XXXX

"Sorry we couldn't take the van, Red," John apologized from the front passenger seat, where he rode beside Flack. "Are you okay back there?"

From where he lay across the back seat, Hellboy rumbled agreeably, "Way better than okay. This beats the van six ways to Sunday." Beatifically he looked up into the tolerantly smiling face of Stella Bonasera from her lap, where his head lay. "You come here often, Detective?" he teased.

"First time," she teased back, "and as long as you stay below window level, I'm happy."

"I guess I owe it to you to say this, Stella," said Flack; "thanks for letting me drive."

That was when her cellphone rang. "That's mine. Hellboy, could you just roll forward a bit?" He obliged, and she excavated it from her pocket. "Detective Bonasera… _What!_ …Oh God, Agent Malone, _please_ tell me you're not kidding…Got it. We're right behind you." Hanging up, she addressed them all: "Someone's sold out al-Ghul, and we know where to go!" Quickly she passed on the address to the driver.

"Well, all right!" Flack quickly pawed for the emergency dome light. "Now that we're finally going to dance, the guy with the siren gets to lead!"

As the emergency shriek ripped across the night, John cautioned, "Remember to kill that thing when we get within ten miles of the target."

"Yeah, yeah, but let me have my fun now." Flack quickly pulled ahead of Malone's car, the siren screaming the road ahead clear, and the two vehicles roared on.

XXXX

It hadn't been long at all – it seemed like mere minutes – before al-Ghul returned to the cellar. In his immaculate white robes, with the magnificent sword at his side and the ancient book under one arm, he contrasted strongly with Samir and Abdelaziz, who were sweat-wet and almost as dirty as the shovels they carried. They had been quite pleased to drop those shovels and take out their guns. It was the work of minutes to release both men from the pipe they were locked to and secure their hands behind their backs; only Martin had been able to put up much resistance, and three to one made for impossible odds.

Eventually the three prisoners were taken upstairs without much trouble. Martin was kept quiet by Samir's gun at the back of his head, and Taylor had to be half-dragged by Mansour on one side and a sweaty, furtive-looking Ghani on the other. As for the stunned, almost entranced Lexi Duhaine, this time she made not a whisper of protest against al-Ghul's orders, but stood up and walked out beside him like a trained pet.

As they were hustled up the steps and through the house, federal agent and NYPD criminalist could take little note of the place except to see that it probably hadn't been cleaned or tidied since al-Ghul had moved his cell into Shaftoe's property. Once they were out the back door, it was clear that the groundskeepers, as well as the household staff, hadn't been at their jobs either. The wide lawn was uncut, the bushes burgeoning with spring had not been trimmed, and the decorative pond gleamed green with scum. They saw it all by the light of a far more alarming, obviously brand-new feature at the center of the garden: a shallow pit about three feet wide by six feet long, a bonfire blazing high all along its length. It was impossible not to notice it was of a size to accommodate easily an adult human body – still alive after being slashed open with a sword.

At first sight of the sacrificial pit, Lexi collapsed, her legs giving way and a muffled moan escaping from behind the gag. With a grunt of annoyance, al-Ghul signaled Abdelaziz to haul her up and keep her going. The captives were finally made to sit on the turf a few yards from the fire, beside a large, once elegant Chinese ornamental boulder, now defaced with symbolic writing that might have been an exotic variant of Arabic – and then again, might not.

Once everything was arranged to his satisfaction, al-Ghul crossed a few feet away to another similarly inscribed ornamental boulder, near a pile of rubble that had once been a garden statue. Carefully he set the _Al-Azif_ book atop the high rock, found his page, and with his right hand drew the sword. It had begun.

XXXX

Don Flack had cut the siren and the flashing blue beam soon after leaving the parkway, but both cars maintained almost the same dangerous speed. "They're not going to be inside," Malone was saying. "Our informant, one Iftikhar Ghani – and you can imagine how anxious I am to look him up in the databases – says that they'll probably be somewhere on the grounds, doing what he referred to as 'some act of idol worship,' no further explanation."

"This case is making less sense by the minute," Danny muttered. "What was that street again?"

Both cars were cruising through a quiet, poorly lit, and obviously very expensive residential area of northern Westchester County. The houses were huge – at least those that could be seen from the road; the neighborhood was dense with trees, the homes set far back, sidewalks nonexistent. Right before they turned the corner onto the correct street, Danny and Flack both slowed down and killed their headlights. They would approach as silently and invisibly as possible.

The house, last one on the dead-end lane, could barely be seen. The night was moonless, thick foliage screened the nearly farm-sized lot from view, and there was not a single light on in the place. The cars opened, spilling eight riders into the night; they gathered at the foot of a brooding maple to improvise their approach.

Standing head and shoulders above the seven humans around him, Hellboy naturally took command. "No flashlights," he declared in a whisper more commanding than any shout could be.

"But it's dark as a coal mine, and we've never been here before," Sam protested. "How do we find our way?"

"Link up in a chain, hand on the shoulder of the one in front of you. I'm on point."

"Why you?" asked Johnson.

"Because no one else here can see in the dark worth a damn. The first in the chain takes hold of my tail."

"After you, Detective Bonasera." Flack was only half joking.

XXXX

The only light was that of the fire-pit; the only voice was that of Jibril Khalid al-Ghul, chanting his summons to the beings on the other side, the fire gleaming off the inscribed blade. Soon enough the cool spring night grew hot and close, as if the sprawling gardens had become a tiny locked room, and the sorcerer's voice was joined by two others: a dry dusty scraping and a sticky, bubbly slurp. The three young Arabs were shaking, and tightened their grip on their weapons; Ghani carefully maneuvered himself until the prisoners and the Chinese boulder lay between him and his master. Lexi had sunk to the ground and was only a deeper, smaller darkness within the night. Mac Taylor, too much strength bled away, let out a sigh of bitterness and lingering pain and sank against the rock; Martin Fitzgerald forced himself to watch al-Ghul, looking for approaching rescuers, a possible opening for resistance, any cause for hope. Failing that, he had one tactic left to buy the others some time…

Suddenly the incantation stopped – not finished, but as if suspended for a moment. Lowering the book, al-Ghul nodded to his men. They exchanged nervous glances, but could not pretend that they didn't know what to do next. Leaving Ghani and Samir to watch the two male captives, Abdelaziz and Mansour took the first steps toward the inert black heap that was Lexi Duhaine. Those first steps were reluctant, very shaky, but soon enough they recovered their confidence and were able to advance boldly on a bound and gagged woman. Grabbing at the black folds of her _abaya_, they hauled her up to her feet and held her there, in spite of her boneless, limp surrender.

Knowing what was about to happen, Martin had to make his move. Taking the guards by surprise, he stood up, straight and resolute in spite of his shackled hands, and declared, "Take me first."

All eyes were instantly on him; he could even feel the hot, repulsive presence of Chaarmarouch and Taranoushi growing stronger and more focused. As Lexi realized what he had said, her strength flooded back, she stood under her own power, and a strangled moan forced its way from behind the gag. But Martin smiled gently at her, remembering a drawing of himself in an aspect he could not have imagined until she had shown it to him. "Take me first," he repeated. "You can get around to her later."

The two young men looked to their master for his cue; al-Ghul considered for a long moment, then nodded curtly again. They obediently let go of Lexi, leaving her swaying precariously on her feet, and went to grip the FBI agent. He let them, and let them slowly lead him over beside the second inscribed boulder where the sorcerer waited, his book placed carefully aside atop the rock, both hands locked on the hilt of the sword.

As they passed the remaining prisoner, Martin looked down at the sound of a quiet voice. "You're good."

"Thank you." Blue gazes met in the firelit night, resigned and admiring, then Martin was pushed onward to his fate. His last challenge remained: to accept a cruel death without dishonoring himself, his team, or his country, and to pray silently that rescue arrived before all three of them were murdered…and the way to this world opened wide to unspeakable invasion.

TO BE CONTINUED


	13. Chapter 13

CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

Chapter 13

Led by a superhuman giant with an immense revolver in his right hand and a sabre in his left, five federal agents and two NYPD detectives carefully made their way through the moonless dark around the perimeter of the silent, lifeless house. As they rounded the corner, the glow of high flames became visible, and seconds later, the sinister goings-on in their light about fifteen yards away. "Oh crap," Hellboy whispered matter-of-factly.

Malone gasped. "Jesus tap-dancing Christ, what the hell are they doing?"

"Sacrificing your agent – unless we have something to say about it."

They did. "Federal agents! Drop your weapons!"

"Police! Freeze!"

They did freeze for a split-second in astonishment. Lexi was the first to move, whirling toward the rescue party and breaking into a wobbly run down the lawn to them.

That broke the spell of shock on al-Ghul. Spitting an oath, he turned in the direction of the fleeing woman, raised the sword and swung it hard through empty air. In mid-run, Lexi suddenly paused, pitched forward, and collapsed to the turf; her head came away and rolled down the lawn, fountaining blood.

Screaming, Mansour whipped up his pistol and fired at the rescue party; his two confederates knocked Martin to the ground between them and had their guns up and shooting. Their targets dodged in all directions, returning fire. Their greater concern was for that uncanny sword in al-Ghul's grip; whoever he chose to strike at next would have no defense. With that in mind, Malone and Johnson took aim at the sorcerer and opened up, sending him diving for the cover of the boulder. John Myers added his fire. Behind the second rock Ghani cowered, weeping in fear as the bullets shrieked by.

Bonasera crouched in the shadow of a forsythia bush, her gun at the ready, and scanned the lawn for the remaining prisoners. "Agent Fitzgerald's on the ground between two shooters; Mac's down at that rock, and he looks hurt. Cover me, Flack."

"Cover _us_." Sam came out of the darkness, her own weapon raised.

"Any time, ladies," Flack whispered with relish. He watched them move out onto the lawn as he and Danny laid down covering fire. His practiced eye recognized that the three enemy shooters were panicked and completely untrained; with a wolfish smile, Flack drew a careful bead on the closest of them and squeezed the trigger. Abdelaziz crumpled; Flack and Danny then turned their attention to Samir. Hit once, then three times, he went down too.

The remaining gunman saw the two women hurrying broken-field across the lawn and ran to intercept. Sam looked up at a wavering pistol barrel – but she was faster. She pumped two shots through his center of mass and kept on going, swooping to Martin's side, pawing for her handcuff key. "Martin, thank God you're all right!"

"You can thank the guy hiding behind that rock over there," he replied with a weary relief. "No, the other rock."

Bonasera came to her partner, appalled at what she saw. "My God, Mac, what did they do to you?"

He was able to smile. "Not as much as they wanted to."

Crouching behind the second rock, pinned down by gunfire from three FBI agents and unable to get a clear eyeline on any of them, al-Ghul could not use the sword – at least not that way. But there were other ways…He muttered the summons; the hot haunted air began to bend and distort. The manifestations began to gather physically, coalescing into visibility and solid, deadly presence.

Sam almost dropped her gun, and flung her free arm around Martin. "Oh my God, Martin, that _thing_…"

His hands now free, Martin put them both around her, and somehow was able to look at the vast ciliated lump, waving and wobbling sickeningly in the firelight, its scores of wet orifices sucking and smacking and drooling acid to burn the ground bare around it. "Sam, meet Taranoushi, king of the _jinn_," he said. "Now run."

A few feet away, Bonasera stared at the suppurating horror that was sliding toward them, leaving a snail-trail of toxic scum and blackened earth, and instantly started emptying her gun in its direction; across the lawn, Flack followed her lead. Not a single wound marked where a dozen bullets hit the thing. "You're wasting your time, Stella," Taylor admonished. "Just get out of here fast and maybe it won't follow you."

"Not without you," she declared. Quickly she released his shackled hands and got her shoulder under his; raising him up with her, she ignored his protests and struggled as quickly as she could to get them across the lawn to the dubious safety of the house. In moments Martin and Sam had overtaken them, and Martin took up the weight of Taylor's other shoulder. They moved much faster now – and so did Taranoushi, whose wet and bubbling laughter mocked all their efforts. In defiance of all sanity, Flack came running to meet them, in spite of their shouts to get back, and joined Sam in covering their rear, still firing useless bullets in what was more a gesture of doomed gallantry than anything else.

"What the – what in the name of God is _that!_" gasped a paralyzed Johnson.

"I thought we'd been over that," Hellboy muttered, bringing his giant pistol to bear on the immense and growing mass of crawling legs, antennae, mandibles, and eyestalks that was even now chewing its way across the grass towards them.

Danny had gone white and was shaking almost too much to level his weapon, but somehow he managed to squeeze the trigger, then squeeze it again. The bullets slammed into the chittering, scraping mass of titanic insect parts and vanished into it, leaving not a scratch.

"Oh, for crying out loud." Gun in his right hand and sabre in his left, Hellboy snaked his tail around Danny's waist and gave him a good yank backwards. "Get behind me before you get yourself killed good and dead, kid. Let the Samaritan handle it." He tossed a command over his shoulder at the other FBI agents: "Keep al-Ghul pinned down – if he can see you, he can kill you!" Obediently they kept the bullets coming, and the red giant, satisfied, again trained his gun on the oncoming Chaarmarouch. The Samaritan's blast drowned out all the other weapons for a moment and tore a wide gap through the bristling core of the monster.

John broke into a wide grin. "Great shot, Red. Dead hit, center of mass!" But his elation turned to open-mouthed dismay in the approximately six seconds it took the wound to close up and sprout another array of spiky bug limbs.

"Crap," Hellboy announced. "Time for Plan B." Again he addressed the humans. "Keep al-Ghul out of action. Don't hit me." Then he tossed the great but now useless pistol aside and, raising the presentation sword of General George Washington, let out a bestial battle roar and charged the invader, full speed ahead.

Chaarmarouch's scraping laughter rose; the invader stopped its advance and stood its ground, many mandibles and claws arrayed to meet the attack. Once the unappetizing demon-thing had been torn to pieces, the same fate awaited the little pack of humans. The breach of the Wall could wait for a few days and the gathering of more sacrifices – or perhaps they could save three of these for the purpose and finish the matter tonight.

Hellboy slammed to a halt, letting his inertia pour through the steel in his hand; with another, louder roar he struck at the top of the tangle of spikes and filaments, eyes and claws. There was a shrieking like that of a whole out-of-tune string orchestra – a wide chunk of parts tumbled away and a sticky, damp black cloud tumbled out after it. Even before the two pieces of the Left Side being had hit the turf and the black fluid came after it, poisoning everything it touched, Hellboy had charged on, this time aiming for Taranoushi.

The slime-slobbering hulk was seconds from overtaking the five fleeing humans. It seemed to be holding itself back just a little, toying with its prey, and taking no notice of the scarlet earthquake barreling toward it. Hellboy held the sword in front of him with both hands on the silver hilt, feeling the power throbbing in it and him; he hit with the force of a Hummer meeting a mountainside at 80 MPH. Washington's sabre plunged almost three feet deep into the invader, and Hellboy dug in his boots to halt himself, then yanked back hard, ripping it up and out of the loathsome bulk and releasing another inky, wet cloud. He and the humans scattered to all sides to avoid the black toxin.

For a moment silence descended on the violated garden as the destruction of the invaders became clear. The wet black clouds were slowly sinking to the earth, spreading and killing the new spring grass, and rescuers and rescued realized that the great red being had done the supposedly impossible.

But in that moment of relief and gratitude, the guns had gone quiet, and a scream broke the spell as al-Ghul tore from his shelter behind the stone, his own crescent blade brandished high for an enchanted blow. There were answering screams of horror – then Hellboy whirled and flung his sword arm outward in a parry against the empty air. The _dhu'l-fakar_ stopped dead in its arc, blocked. Steel should have clashed, but there was another second's silence. Then al-Ghul screamed again, this time in frustration, and turned his attention from the slayer of his Left Side beings to the group of FBI agents, locking his eyes on Jack Malone.

The scimitar rose again – but this time, the guns spoke again too. A fusillade ripped at the sorcerer; he was hit at least three times above the waist. Wailing, he dropped the sword and bolted away, running blindly into the night, red rapidly spreading across his white robes. Sam and Flack instantly dashed to intercept, but al-Ghul had a head start and stayed out of their reach…until he tripped on the outstretched wrist of one of his dead confederates. Stumbling, he plummeted forward – into the sacrificial pit and its flames. The would-be arresting officers tried to reach into the inferno to pull him to safety, and then justice, but searing heat drove them back, helpless. The screaming did not go on for long.

John came running toward the fire-pit, calling for Hellboy. "You're fireproof! Get him out of there!"

But he stopped when he saw his colleague. Hellboy was swaying on his feet, obviously exhausted and on the point of collapse. John ran again, changing direction to get to Hellboy, seize him by the arm, and help lower him gently to the earth as he dropped the sword, then lost balance. "Sorry, Boy Scout," he confessed sadly, "but I couldn't lift a feather now. Don't know what happened to my strength."

"You must have used it up. Rest now. I'll call the cleanup detail."

But even as he sat, slumped with fatigue, Hellboy shook his head. "Not that fast. No way. Must be something else at work…"

Stunned by the events of the night, Malone's team and Taylor's milled about, adrenaline dissipating and mild shock setting in. Everyone seemed to be at a bit of a loss, until there was a movement near one of the ornamental rocks. A slight, dark man was standing, then slowly coming forward. As everyone stared, he stopped, cleared his throat as if embarrassed, and announced himself. "I – I am Iftikhar Ghani. I wish to cooperate."

Malone quickly covered the space between them. "Glad to hear it, Mr. Ghani. We owe you quite a bit." Ghani just ran a hand through his hair and could not answer. Understanding, Malone nodded and said, "You don't need to make a statement now, sir. If you come with us – "

"Oh, but I do want to make a statement now." He swallowed hard. "I just want to say…I'm sorry." He looked around at the carnage. "So much death…"

"Consider how much more you prevented," Malone pointed out.

He nodded dully, but went on. "Still…those three boys dreamed of glorious martyrdom, and ended up shot like dogs while trying to defend an abominable act of polytheism. That Shaftoe – don't misunderstand, he was a beast and probably deserved to die, but not the way he did. And poor Miss Duhaine meant no harm, she was only doing what she thought she had to do…" He trailed away, tears coming.

"You could say the same of yourself," Malone replied gently. "Just relax now. Danny, you take charge of Mr. Ghani here until he's ready to make his official statement. Martin, of course we'll need one from you too. You all right, Sam?" She nodded to him. "Good. And where's Vivian?"

"Over there." Danny had recognized the suited figure off at a slight remove, quite near the fire pit. "What's that in her hands?"

Malone's jaw dropped as he recognized the object – to his horror. "Viv! What the hell are you doing?" All eyes were suddenly upon her; before anyone could make a move to intervene, a black and scarlet rectangle swung upward, seemed to hang in the air for a charged moment, then plummetted into the flames. A burst of fire flashed up as the book vanished; Johnson dusted off her hands against each other and swung back over toward the group, a satisfied smile on her face.

They all stared silently until Flack said slowly, "Agent Johnson…you just torched the only surviving manuscript copy of the complete original text of _Al-Azif_."

Malone nodded in agreement, clearly astonished. "Viv, that book is – _was_ the property of the Kuwaiti government."

She met his gaze coolly with her own. "Oops."

"My sentiments exactly, Agent Johnson." Mac Taylor came over, with his partner's help. "Besides, I have a feeling that the Kuwaiti government won't be asking for that particular piece of their property anytime soon. We will be able to return the two swords to the Met."

"Not exactly, Detective Taylor," said John as he closed his cellphone. "Dr. Manning says that we can return the stolen one, but Abe wants a closer look at the Washington piece." A shudder – not of horror, but of awe – ran down his back. "Something to do with possible manifestation of the Primordial Will. Or something."

"While you were on the phone, Agent Myers," Bonasera said, catching his attention, "I hope you called for the paramedics. We've got a wounded man here."

"I'm afraid not, Detective. Standard BPRD procedure. Our own unit has to decontaminate the scene and impound the evidence. I'm sorry."

"I'm not," Taylor declared unexpectedly. "The last thing I want to do is to have to explain those toxic nonhuman remains. And the second-to-last thing I want to do is go to the hospital."

But Bonasera was having none of it. "Mac, you've been _tortured_, for God's sake! You're hurt, badly – "

"Nothing that can't be fixed with a coating of NeoSporin, a box of butterflies, and some rest, Stella. Now please, stop worrying."

"I hope that's not an order." She paused, sighed. "My God, it's been a long day – and night."

Bonasera was right. Rising light was pearling the sky; the secret BPRD vehicles John had summoned were still some time away. Now the flames barely cleared the edge of the pit where the body of al-Ghul waited to be dragged out and identified, and the book _Al-Azif_ lay in irrecoverable ashen ruin. Sam surveyed the field in a slow, stunned sweep. "It's over, right? Please, someone tell me it's over."

Danny clapped a reassuring hand onto her shoulder. "It'd better be over."

"Oh, it is." Bonasera helped her partner to sit on one of the few remaining patches of grass not destroyed by the night's combat. "I don't know about the rest of you, but as far as I'm concerned, my report – in all its, shall we say, creativity – can wait for a while."

Malone gave the CSI an understanding smile. "Until you've had some sleep?"

"Until I've seen to it that this stubborn alpha male gets some medical attention." She gave Taylor's shoulder an affectionate touch. "Then until I've gone to the Penn Station K-Mart and picked up _Team America: World Police_ on DVD – the unrated version – and watched it while having too much to drink. _Then_ had some sleep."

"Sounds like a plan," said Flack. "Want some company?"

A scarlet face was split by a wide, toothy grin. "Well, all right!" Hellboy balled and pumped a mighty stone fist. "America! Fu – "

"Red. Please." A much smaller, paler hand – John Myers' – was firmly placed atop the limb of rock.

"Whatever." Sourly Hellboy opened his hand and swung a look around at his allies. "Now you all know why I call him Boy Scout."

"And now you know why we call you hero," Martin declared. "It'll be good to go home."

THE END

(Author's note: As of summer 2005, Metropolitan Museum of Art Item 36.25.1297, an inscribed ceremonial scimitar made for Sultan Suleyman I, occupies a prominent place among the Ottoman artifacts in the Hall of Arms and Armor. The presentation sabre of George Washington is no longer on display.)


End file.
